


A Little Bit Of Light

by commoncomitatus



Category: The New Legends of Monkey (TV)
Genre: Culture Shock, Friendship, Gen, Sensory Overload
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-06-15 18:04:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15418578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commoncomitatus/pseuds/commoncomitatus
Summary: Picks up at the end of "The Journey Begins".  As our heroes set out on their quest, Sandy struggles to adjust to life outside the sewers.A study in sunlight, social interaction, and being seen.





	1. Does Anybody Have A Map?

**Author's Note:**

> 1) This fic was inspired by the 'culture shock' square on my [Hurt/Comfort Bingo](https://hc-bingo.dreamwidth.org/) card.
> 
> 2) To say that Sandy is my muse for this newest of new fandoms would be the understatement of the millenium. While not super-surprising given the types of characters I generally connect with, I nonetheless apologise profusely for this and for the inevitable tsunami of angsty fic it will produce.

***

The last time Sandy went outside in daylight people threw rocks at her head.

This time they’re throwing confetti at her feet.

It’s a big change. A big, big change.

But she hasn’t changed very much at all.

They have, maybe.

Freedom has that effect on people. Makes it easier to breathe, easier to move, easier to think and feel. Easier to see the good in others, not just the bad.

Easier to trust as well, sometimes. Even when it’s not a good idea.

This she knows from experience.

She’s not sure that ‘freedom’ is the right word for what she’s feeling now, though. Freedom means being safe, means being able to do things without fear.

It’s not something she knows particularly well. But she knows enough to know that it’s not _this_.

This—

This is bodies and blaring and brightness. It is people everywhere, voices everywhere, sunlight everywhere. It is loud and it is chaotic and it is—

It is so _much_. So much of everything everywhere, and it goes on and on.

And she thinks this can’t be freedom. Can’t be, because she cannot breathe at all.

The others are enjoying themselves.

Monkey, especially. She can feel him flexing beside her, big arms and a big head and a great big giant smirk to make them forget about the big head. He likes to be in the middle of things, likes to be the center of attention. Likes to be seen and noticed. Maybe likes to be worshipped too, a little bit.

Makes sense, she supposes. That’s what gods are supposed to do, isn’t it?

She wouldn’t know. How could she know? She’s not—

Well. She is. But only just. Only barely. Not like him.

Never been worshipped.

Learned young never to be seen or noticed, never to be visible. Never to let herself get caught in daylight.

Daylight is dangerous. Daylight—

 _Was_ dangerous.

People never threw confetti at her, not before today. They threw other things. Rocks, names. She got very good at catching them, better still at dodging.

Now, all of a sudden, it’s confetti. Now it’s cheers instead of curses. And how is she supposed to catch those things, or dodge them, or do anything at all?

The fluttering bits of paper fall at her feet — _their_ feet; she’s not just _her_ now, not any more — and no-one even bothers trying to pick it up.

Such a mess. And for what?

For Monkey, mostly. For Tripitaka, a little. For—

She turns her head, and Pigsy looks back at her.

“Quite a send-off, eh?” he says, and grins, and—

And Sandy feels sick, sick, sick to her stomach.

“You did terrible things,” she tells him.

And he stops smiling and stops trying to talk to her all at once.

*

It’s a little quieter beyond the village gates.

Not much. But a little.

Tripitaka talks a lot, though. So, so much.

He talks about the quest, about the journey, about the Scholar and the scrolls and countless other things. He talks so much, Sandy starts to wonder if he’s allergic to silence.

She hopes not. Her head is throbbing already.

The sun is bright. Impossibly bright, unbearably bright. It hurts her eyes, drills into her skull and her brain, and she wants to run for shelter but there is none. There’s only nothing, nothing in all directions.

And they walk. And the walk. And they _walk_.

And none of the others seem to notice at all, how bright the sun is or how endless the sky is or how there is so much open space and heat and light, so much _nothing_.

She can’t remember the last time she went out in daylight without having to hide. Can barely remember the last time she went out in daylight at all.

Stick to the shadows. This she’s learned, this she knows. Stay in the dark, stay out of sight, stay hidden, stay invisible. Don’t let the sun on your skin. Whatever you do, don’t ever, ever, ever let the sun catch you.

She can’t—

She cannot think in all this light.

Her head _throbs_.

And the others walk and talk and talk and walk, like the world isn’t a solar flare, like it isn’t burning the skin from their bones, like the sky isn’t endless. Like everything isn’t sharp and brutal and so, so painful.

It is hours later — or maybe just minutes that feel like hours — when Tripitaka turns and looks at her.

His eyes are very dark, sparkling under the too-much light, and Sandy feels the ache in her chest give out a little. _Tripitaka_ , she thinks, and feels warmed by something that isn’t the sun, something protective and soft that does not burn. And she can’t explain it, but for just a moment the world doesn’t feel quite so sharp.

Tripitaka smiles up at her and says, “What do you know?”

Sandy blinks. Tries to think. _Tries_.

“Very little,” she admits. “About very little.”

“About the quest,” Tripitaka presses.

And the soft, protective, not-sharp feeling disappears.

Sandy tries, again, to think.

She tries so hard.

But—

“It’s too light to know anything.”

Tripitaka laughs a little. Politely, like he doesn’t really think it’s funny but he thinks _she_ thinks it’s funny.  


But then he looks at her and sees that she doesn’t. And he stops laughing and starts frowning instead.

“Wait, you’re serious?”

Sandy looks around. Squints through the light and the heat, and sees all that _nothing_ reflected on all their faces. Blank, vacant, empty. Like the sun isn’t burning them alive. Like it’s not searing. Like it’s not—

Like they don’t feel anything at all.

And she feels weak and very small.

“No,” she says. And it’s not true, not true at all, but they’re looking at her — _staring_ at her — and she knows far too well what happens when people stare. “Of course not.”

But Tripitaka is still frowning, like he doesn’t really know what to make of all this, or of her.

And it is too much, the way he stares and the way the light strikes both their faces. It is _too much_ , and Sandy feels exposed and very frightened.

So she pulls her hood up over her head, and she hides from his eyes and she hides from his frown and she hides from the sun, and she hides, hides, _hides_ like her life depends on it.

Like it always has.

Monkey leans in to whisper into Tripitaka’s ear, too loudly, “Are you sure it was a good idea to let her tag along?”

Tripitaka looks at him, then looks back at Sandy.

“She’s harmless,” he says.

And Sandy thinks that’s the first time anyone’s ever said that about her.

*

A little later — or a lot later, it’s so hard to tell — Pigsy catches up to her.

He’s panting, exhausted and utterly breathless, and it’s not so easy to understand him when he tries to speak. 

“I’m _trying_ , you know,” he says, and it sounds like a cry for help.

Sandy pulls her hood down over her face. Her eyes hurt, her head hurts, her feet hurt. The world is sharp and it makes every part of her _hurt_ , and she really does not want him to see that.

“We’re all trying,” she mutters.

He rolls his eyes. It seems to take a lot of effort. “You know what I mean.”

“Maybe,” she says.

And yes, maybe she would. If she could think. If she knew anything.

“Look,” he goes on, “we’ve all got to start somewhere, right?”

She is far too miserable to be having this conversation. “Suppose so.”

“Right.” But of course he doesn’t care. “So why don’t you cut me some slack and give me a chance?”

She looks at him. Squints, bleary-eyed under the shade of her hood, and wonders how much of her he can see. Even the smallest little bit would be too much.

“If I do that,” she says, very slow and very careful, “will you leave me alone?”

He blinks a couple of times. And then he laughs.

The sound shakes her like a blow to the stomach.

“Sure.” So easy. Like that’s how the world is to him. And then he laughs again, and Sandy feels violently, violently sick. “If only all my ex-victims were so easily placated, eh?”

She pushes her hood back, just enough to let him look her in the eye. His are rich and dark. They seem to sparkle a bit, just like Tripitaka’s.

One day, maybe, she’ll look at them and see kindness, but right now all she sees is the reflection of the sun. And it hurts, and they hurt, and she hurts.

“Are so many of them still alive, then?” she asks quietly. “Your ex-victims?”

He stops laughing. Then he reaches over to yank her hood back up. Like he’s afraid of what he sees in her face.

 _Good,_ she thinks, and hides.

“All right,” he says. “Leaving you alone, starting right now.”

And to her immense relief, he does.

*

And they walk.

And they walk.

And they _walk_.

It is torturous and terrible, and Sandy wants nothing more than to turn around and go back to Palawa, back the way they came, back to anywhere in the whole wide world where there’s just the tiniest sliver of shade or shadow or _water_.

She needs to not be in the sun any more.

She needs to be—

She needs—

She doesn’t know.

She can’t think. She can’t see. She is parched and miserable, and she can’t do anything but follow the tracks Monkey and Tripitaka leave with their feet, half-blind and hoping that she’s getting it right.

She gets so many things wrong. Would they even notice one more?

And it feels like years, like decades before they take a break.

But they do. At long last, when even Monkey is missing steps and starting to trip over his own feet, they do.

Not that he’d admit to needing it, of course.

It’s _practical_ , he declares when he orders them to a stop. It’s _logical_ not to burn themselves out too fast. It _makes sense_ that they pace themselves.

The others, sweaty and weary for a long time by now, do not argue.

There’s no shade where they stop. Only a great many rocks.

“Good enough,” Monkey says with a shrug. “We’re just catching our breath. Not like we’re going to be sticking around here.”

“Speak for yourself,” Pigsy mutters, and plants himself firmly on the nearest rock. “I’m not moving until I’ve had lunch.”

Monkey growls. Then he starts muttering under his breath about wasted time and how they have more important things to do.

But then his stomach starts growling along with the rest of him, and no-one really believes him after that.

Sandy sits on the ground, away from the rocks and the way they taunt her with their lack of shade. And Tripitaka sits down next to her, and her heart sort of stops beating.

He does it like it’s natural. Like it’s _normal_. Like his name doesn’t make him a god to gods, like Sandy will ever be worthy of sharing his company, even for a moment.

Like she could see him under the sun’s glare even if she was.

Like she’s capable of holding a conversation, like she even knows what a conversation really is when she hasn’t had one in more years than she can count. Like she’s ever had anyone sit next to her before by choice.

But he’s looking at her like he doesn’t see any of that — or maybe like he sees all of it and doesn’t care — and he’s frowning at her just like he did before. And he touches her arm and his hands are much, much softer than a monk’s hands should be.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

And Sandy thinks, _no_ , very loudly and many, many times.

And she tries and fails to swallow, and she just about manages to say, “Of course, Tripitaka.”

She expects him to call her a liar. She expects him to see the deception in her as easily as she has always seen it in others, but he doesn’t. He just pats her arm and takes her at her word.

“Glad to hear it,” he says, and smiles.

And Sandy tries again to swallow, but there is no moisture in her mouth, nothing to dull that razed, raw feeling in her throat.

*

It is strange, being a part of something.

Monkey and Tripitaka build a fire and talk about the quest, and Pigsy cooks and talks about food.

And then they all sit around and watch the bubbling whatever-it-is in the pot, and Monkey offers unhelpful suggestions and Tripitaka rolls his eyes and Pigsy laughs his twisted, stomach-turning laugh, and it is all so—

So _much_.

Sandy wonders if this is what it should feel like, having a family again. She wonders why it’s not more enjoyable.

They make everything look so easy, but she doesn’t feel that way at all. She can’t see anything and she can’t think at all and she can’t even breathe without applying her whole self, and it is—

It is too hard and it is too much.

And she looks at Tripitaka and feels a stalling in her heart, a strangling sort of feeling in her throat; the sight of him fills her with too much sensation, and she thinks she might catch fire if she looks directly at him just like if she looked into the sun. She doesn’t know how to relax around him; she’s not really sure if she should, if that’s a worthy thing to strive for. He is who he is, and she is—

Nobody.

And she looks at Monkey and feels nothing at all. And she looks at Pigsy and wants to be sick, and she looks up at the sun and down at the fire and she feels burned all the way down to her bones.

And then, out of nowhere, Tripitaka hands her a spoon.

“Lunch,” he says, pointing at the pot like he’s explaining a very simple concept to a very small child.

Sandy shakes her head and hands back the spoon without a thought.

“I’ve survived days without sustenance,” she says. “Many times.”

Tripitaka is frowning again. It’s tighter now, though, and just a little bit sad.

“But now you don’t have to,” he says.

And Sandy thinks on that for a long while, but she doesn’t know how to explain that it doesn’t matter.

She pulls out her journal while the others eat, and tries to write down the few cohesive thoughts that stick in her head.

It is a strange thing, looking down at the weathered old book and realising that it’s not her only companion any more.

Strange to write down her thoughts and wonder if she should be speaking them instead, if she should be _sharing_ them. Strange to taste the idea on her tongue and choke on it, terrified by what it might mean.

Her mind is a jumble, chaotic and confusing and so hard to turn into words. How is she supposed to make conversations out of all that, out of feelings that don’t make sense outside her own head, out of thoughts that only exist in fragments and fractures? How is she supposed to communicate with these people — with _any_ people — when she hasn’t had another living soul to speak with in years and years?

So she doesn’t try. She ducks her head instead, and she writes.

She writes about Tripitaka, about how strange it feels to have finally met him, to have seen him and spoken to him and touched him with her bare hands. About how she’s not entirely convinced she isn’t dreaming. 

She writes about Monkey too. About the way he almost killed her, about the dull bruise she still feels in her throat when she tries to swallow or speak, about how it makes for a good excuse not to do either of those things.

She writes about Pigsy, about how he claims to be turning over a new leaf and how she can’t bring herself to trust him yet, can’t bring herself to forgive or forget all the things he’s done.

It’s hard to write about that, though, so she stops and writes about the sun instead.

She writes about the heat, the light, the pain. About how bright the world is, and how sharp, and how much it burns. And she writes about how desperately she misses the cold and damp of her sewer, her _home_.  


And she writes about how much she misses _water_ , even the worst of it, and how much misses the voices of the creatures who thrive there even in the dark, and how much she misses—

“Sandy?”

She blinks and looks up. 

They’re all staring at her, all three of them, like they think she’s lost what little is left of her mind.

She puts the pen down, tucks the journal away. “Was I...”

“...sharing your internal monologues with the rest of us?” Pigsy looks uncomfortable. “Uh, _yeah_.”

“Oh.” She swallows, wincing when it hurts. “Um. Sorry?”

Tripitaka is smiling, just a little bit. His face is very different from Pigsy’s, soft at the edges and sort of gentle. Sandy’s sure she’s never seen that kind of a smile on a monk’s face before. But then, Tripitaka isn’t supposed to be the usual sort of monk, is he?

It should reassure her, the softness of his smile and the sparkle in his eyes. It should bring her comfort, looking up and remembering that it’s _him_. It should—

She doesn’t know why it doesn’t.

“I guess it’s been a while since you had anyone else to talk to,” Tripitaka says, with a monk’s compassion. “Or anyone to listen.”

“A long time, yes.” She feels exposed and so vulnerable; she feels like the sun has turned her inside-out and his eyes are devouring everything left behind. “Please stop staring at me.”

And she ducks back under her hood and hides, hides, _hides_.

*

Monkey corners her while the others clear away the lunch things.

“So,” he says, scrutinising her like an object. “What’s your deal?”

Sandy looks around. Monkey isn’t especially tall but his broad shoulders and wide stance take up a lot of space; she can’t see a clear route for escape, and that makes her uncomfortable.

She is not as afraid of him, specifically, as perhaps she should be — _certainly_ should be, given what happened the last time he got her in a corner — but she doesn’t like to be trapped by anyone. This is a lesson she has learned too many times.

She inches backwards just a little bit before she speaks, and keeps her eyes on the ground. Wonders how difficult it would be to duck under his legs if she needed to.

“Don’t have one.”

“Sure you do. Everyone does.” He says it like it’s a conversation, like it’s not an interrogation, but he’s standing like he expects her to come at him with her weapon drawn. The mixed signals make her head start to throb again. “So you’re here to help the monk. Because, what, some old human geezer told you to?”

“Mm.” Maybe she could duck _around_ him? “Yes, that.”

“And you lived your whole life never knowing any other gods?”

Sandy thinks of Pigsy. Her throat spasms. “Not exactly.”

His quirked eyebrow turn it into an interrogation again. “Go on...”

She tries to swallow, but it hurts too much. She feels frightened.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” she mumbles. “I don’t...”

“Yeah, yeah. You don’t really know how to do ‘people’, right?”

“I’m sorry.”

He studies her again, eyes narrowed, like he’s trying to dissect her, like he thinks he can pull her apart and put her back together again if he stares hard enough.

A part of her almost wishes he’d succeed. It might be a mercy.

Her skin feels too tight for her bones, like it’s choking her, and the bruise in her neck feels worse when she looks at him. Memory is a funny thing, she thinks, and it tightens across her throat like the weight of his staff, strangling and suffocating and—

And then it’s over, and he looks away.

If she didn’t know better she’d think he looks nearly as uncomfortable as she does.

“Yeah.” He swallows like she does too, like it hurts his throat to even try. “I’m sorry too. You know, for the whole...”

And he gestures with both hands, mimics choking her.

And Sandy’s throat _clenches_.

And she tries to swallow, tries to speak, but she doesn’t know how.

No-one’s ever apologised to her before. How could she know what to say?

“You thought I was a demon.” And so she sticks to the truth. Simple, the truth. Easier, from her experience, than trying to keep track of too many lies. “Why wouldn’t you have tried to kill me?”

He blinks for what feels like a decade. “Well, uh... when you put it like that...”

But he doesn’t look any less uncomfortable than he did a moment ago.

“It’s not important,” she says, trying a little too hard to be reassuring. “It was hardly the first time.”

But it sort of was.

The first time she felt like it mattered, at least. The first time she watched the world close in around her and thought that perhaps she didn’t want to die after all.

The first time she had a reason not to.

She tries not to think about that. Looking up, seeing Tripitaka, thinking about the unfairness of dying in the very moment he finally appeared. Feeling the tightness in her chest, the pressure on her throat, feeling overpowered and so afraid — really and truly _afraid_ , for the first time in all the dozens of times they nearly killed her — that it really was the end.

She shakes off the memory.

Touches her throat, feels the lingering ghostly bruise.

And she thinks that it’s a much more pleasant sensation, the dull, fading pain that says she didn’t die, than the throbbing in her head and the burning under her skin.

Monkey is looking at her throat too, and wincing.

“Next time we stop,” he says, “I’ll get the monk to make you a salve for that.”

“No.” She doesn’t want Tripitaka to go out of his way for her. She’s supposed to help him; it’s not supposed to be the other way around. And besides: “I rather like the reminder.”

“The reminder that I almost killed you?”

He’s stopped wincing, at least. Now he just looks bemused.

“Yes. The reminder that you _almost_ did.”

And he stares at her for a long, long moment, then shakes his head and says, “You’re really not normal. You know that?”

Sandy thinks of rocks thrown at her head, of words thrown at her heart, of fluttering confetti thrown at her feet. She thinks of the world, sharp and bright and burning, and how no-one else seems to notice it but her.

“I do know that,” she says. “I know it very well.” And she’s not sure why but she feels compelled to add, “Thank you.”

He blinks. “Uh. Sure. No problem.”

And off he strides, shaking his head.

*

Back on the road, she’s left alone with her thoughts.

For a short while, anyway.

She can hear them talking ahead of her, Monkey and Tripitaka, and Pigsy panting and gasping behind, and she knows it’s only a matter of time before one of them tries to engage her again.

Probably Tripitaka with more questions. Maybe Pigsy with more excuses. Likely not Monkey; he’s made his attempt for the day, and she doubts he’ll try again any time soon.

For now, though, it’s just her and the noise in her head.

And the sun on her face.

And the sun in her eyes.

And the sun and the sun and the _sun_ , burning her skin.

Her head is throbbing.

Her throat—

It is an unpleasant sensation, dehydration, and she is not at all familiar with it.

Perhaps she should be, but water has been the one thing in her life that is constant, the one thing that’s always been there.

She lived in a sewer. Water everywhere. It wasn’t clean, but she learned how to fix that. It wasn’t good, but it was hers and it sustained her and it nourished her. No-one else wanted it, true, but then they didn’t want her either so it seemed rather fitting.

There were many bad things about living in the dark and cold, about living alone and underground, but at least she never had to feel like _this_ , parched and pained and pathetic.

Too hot. Too bright. Too much.

The horizon never ends, and the world goes on forever and her head—

Her head won’t stop _throbbing_.

She has spent her whole life waiting for this moment, for Tripitaka and the Monkey King and the quest that would bring order back to the world. She has spent her whole life readying to take this journey, and now that it’s here, now that she’s finally doing what she’s been waiting for, she finds that it’s almost entirely unbearable.

She does not want to think about how much of a disappointment she would be if the Scholar could see her now.

She does not want to think about—

No.

She does not want to _think_.

But she can’t seem to stop.

*

Hours later — minutes later? — Tripitaka falls into step beside her.

And Sandy doesn’t know whether to be frightened of more questions or happy that the words won’t be all her own.

“Drink,” he says, and presses a waterskin into her hands. Then, chiding, “You’re the one person I shouldn’t have to tell this to.”

Sandy waits until her thirst is slaked before trying to speak. “You don’t have to. I’m quite aware of my body’s needs.”

And she drinks some more. Too much, really, and too fast, so much that she would probably make herself ill if she were someone else. But she’s not, and the only thing in the world her body knows not to reject is water. So she drinks and she drinks and she doesn’t come up for air until the skin is drained completely dry.

And Tripitaka is staring again.

“That’s actually kind of impressive,” he says, but it doesn’t really sound like a compliment at all.

Sandy really, really wants to hide.

“Was there something you wanted?” she mumbles.

“Uh...”

She bites her tongue, forces herself to try again. “I mean to say, is there something I can help you with?”

It doesn’t sound any better.

Tripitaka frowns and looks at her like he doesn’t know how to pursue this, like maybe he regrets approaching her at all.

And who can blame him?

How could he know what to make of someone like her, someone who is so utterly useless at speaking and making the words sound right? How could anyone know how to communicate with someone who doesn’t know what communication is?

“Uh.” He clears his throat, looking nearly as awkward as Sandy feels. “What did the Scholar tell you about me?”

Sandy squints down at him. The world seems to shimmer and dissolve, and it takes her eyes a moment to focus. Under the blasting, blaring sunlight, he does not look like a boy at all, or like a monk. And that—

She shakes her head. The throbbing gets worse.

“That you were a monk,” she says, after an awful lot of thinking. “He told me that you were a monk.”

“I know that part.” He looks like he’s trying really hard to be patient, and not succeeding at all. “What else?”

“Don’t remember.”

He grimaces a little, like maybe he was expecting that and didn’t want to admit it. “Is there anything you _do_ remember?”

And Sandy thinks, _certainly not the last time I saw so much sun_.

But she doesn’t think he’d care very much about that.

So she just shrugs and says, “Not very much.”

And her vision swims again, and the world sort of blurs and grows indistinct for a long, long moment. And by the time she’s able to focus again she finds Tripitaka frowning up at her with a tight jaw and a strange sort of expression that she doesn’t recognise.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” he says. “You look a little...”

And he gestures with his hands, like Sandy has any way of knowing what it means.

Like any human would waste their time teaching her how to communicate without words. Like she would ever let one get close enough to try it, even if they were willing. Like such an attempt could ever have ended with something other than broken bones for everyone involved.

And he’s looking at her like it’s obvious, like she’s supposed to understand. But she _doesn’t_ , and she feels small and so very stupid.

“A little what?” she asks, frustrated. “I don’t know what that means.”

And Tripitaka looks at her with sorrow and sympathy in his eyes. And Sandy doesn’t understand that either, doesn’t understand anything except that it makes her feel trapped and scared, that it makes her want to hide even more.

“Like you need to take a break,” he says, at last.

Sandy knows nothing about anything, but she rather suspects that is not the truth.

“Oh,” she says. “Is that what it means?”

He frowns, but doesn’t answer. He just touches her arm again and looks at her very closely, and says, “ _Do_ you need to take a break?”

Sandy thinks about that, very very hard. How far to be honest, how far to expose herself. She does not feel safe out here, in the open with all the world and the sun pressing in around her, and nowhere to run if things go bad.

 _When_ things go bad.

They always go bad.

She closes her eyes.

“No,” she says, so quietly she hopes Tripitaka won’t hear. “I don’t need to take a break. Thank you for asking, Tripitaka, but I don’t need anything.”

“Are you sure?”

And he tightens his grip on her arm.

It’s surprisingly strong for something so small, a painful pressure against the fabric of her clothing. He’s holding her in place like he thinks they’re the same size, but he’s so little she doubts he could reach her shoulder without standing on his toes. Much too small for a monk. Too small for a boy too, maybe.

Small enough that she might wonder a bit, if she was capable of forming a coherent thought right now.

But small or not, he is strong. At least, his touch weakens her whole body. Which may or may not be the same thing. Perhaps it’s just his effect on her, the effect of all those years spent waiting, years of solitude and darkness and isolation, years upon years of—

“I’m sure,” she says.

But she is not at all.

She can’t tell whether or not Tripitaka is convinced, but he lets the matter drop as if he were.

Thoughtful of him, she thinks. Compassionate. A sweet monk, even if he is too small.

Sandy wishes she could remember more of what the Scholar told her, more of what she was to expect. She wishes she had more to offer him, something better than _I don’t remember_.

Her memory is poor at the best of times, though, riddled with holes and lost time. And now her brain is being boiled alive, and her body is burning along with it, and it’s a miracle, really, that she can even recall her own name.

“All right,” Tripitaka says at last, and he finally lets go of her arm. “We’ll rest a little later then. Maybe try and reach a village before dark. I’d like to spend the night under a roof, if we can.”

Sandy feels sick again. “A village?” she squeaks. “With people?”

It sounds like stupidity, she suspects, but it’s not. It’s really, _really_ not.

Tripitaka laughs, though, like he kind of thinks it is. “If we’re lucky.”

And suddenly Sandy is as parched as if she’d drank nothing at all.

She remembers the people of Palawa. Remembers the days before they threw confetti, the days when they threw rocks and fists, when they threw knives and fruit and worse things besides.

She remembers the names they threw as well. Words, words, words, and they thought they wouldn’t hurt as much as the other things but somehow they always did.

 _This_ she remembers.

“From my experience,” she whispers, “ _people_ seldom means _lucky_.”

Tripitaka flinches, like he feels as seared and scorched as she does. He looks at her with wide eyes and an open mouth, like he’s seeing someone different, a threat or maybe a demon — they always see a demon in the end, always — and for a terrifying moment Sandy is sure that he’ll lash out like everyone else.

She stops her breath, braces for a blow or a rejection, braces for a hundred different kinds of pain—

But it doesn’t come.

He just takes her hands, both of hers in both of his, and says, with so much softness that it can’t possibly hurt, “Things change. You’re with us now.”

And Sandy thinks that makes a difference, but—

No. She _knows_ it makes a difference. She does.

She saw it in Palawa. Felt it in those fluttering pieces of confetti, the first time in her life something was thrown at her that wasn’t meant to cause pain. Heard it in their cheers and cries, words she’d never seen aimed at her before, _protector_ and _saviour_ and _hero_.

She knows that being with Tripitaka and Monkey has changed the way people look at her as well. She knows that she will become good in their eyes by being with them. She knows this, she knows it. She _knows_ —

But years of experience have made it very, very hard to believe.

She swallows over the bruise on her throat.

And she glances back at Pigsy and feels so very sick.

And her head throbs and pounds and aches.

And she sighs and says, “I hope you’re good at catching rocks.”

And Tripitaka just stares at her like he thinks she’s utterly mad.

*


	2. ...If You Keep Getting Burned

*

The sun is very high when a village takes shape on the horizon.

It is a tiny thing, a little black speck against the lines of yellow dust and blue-white sky. From a distance it looks harmless, but to Sandy it is a looming horror.

It’s been hours since they last stopped. The heat and the light are relentless, as endless and unbroken as the horizon, and she is certain she hasn’t felt this bad in years, perhaps more. The promise of shade should be a relief.

But it’s not.

She’s cut a strip from her cloak and wrapped it around her head to try and shield her vision, but it’s as futile as her attempts to swallow or breathe. The sun breaks through the holes in the fabric like it was never there, like the only thing it cares about is making her miserable.

And it does. And it _does_.

So the light pierces her eyes and the heat pierces her skin, and every part of her is run through with dozens of little prickling pains. It has torn through her so completely that all the sweat has been chased out of her pores, so completely that all her muscles have started to tighten and contract.

But she doesn’t complain.

She drinks when Tripitaka tells her to, and she speaks only when she has to, but her throat is still razed raw and her head still throbs like her skull is trying to crack itself open.

And now _this_. This distant shadowy nightmare on the horizon.

And if she wasn’t already feeling sick and sad and sorry for herself, she certainly is now.

The others are less intimidated, of course. Nothing seems to bother them at all, it seems.

“About time,” Pigsy is saying. “Another hour, and you’d be carrying me.”

Monkey snorts.

“You know it’ll be more than an hour before we get there, right?” He’s smirking a bit as he says it, though, and it’s obvious he’s just as relieved as Pigsy; he just doesn’t want anyone to know it. “And I am _not_ going to carry you.”

Tripitaka is beaming. Bright as the sun but not so hot. Not so painful. It’s an odd look on him, the quiet exuberance. Makes him look older and younger all at once, and strangely pretty for a boy.

“We’ll make it before sundown,” he says, like that’s the only thing in the world that matters.

Sandy doesn’t say anything, but she thinks ‘sundown’ doesn’t sound nearly so enticing as it did a minute ago.

She unwraps the cloth from around her head, shoves it in her pocket and squints up at the sun. It’s still so high, so hot. Hours left before it sets, before they reach that terrible threat on the horizon, before Tripitaka learns the difference between ‘sanctuary’ and ‘safe’.

She sighs. It makes her head spin, makes her stomach turn, makes her feel—

“Sandy?”

Tripitaka is looking at her again, and the smile has faded just a little. Sandy wishes, for once, that the sun would shine ever so slightly brighter so she wouldn’t see the shadows gathering behind his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she says, though she doesn’t really know what for.

Tripitaka looks like he wants to say something quiet and private, but he doesn’t. He just shakes his head and turns back to the horizon.

“Come on,” he says, to none of them and all of them. “Let’s get going.”

*

So they start walking again.

And it should be easier, walking with a destination ahead, but it’s not.

Not for Sandy, at least.

For the others, definitely. Monkey is walking faster and Tripitaka’s back is a little straighter and even Pigsy isn’t gasping or panting as much as he was before. Easier for them, yes.

But for her, it is harder.

Harder with that black spot on the horizon growing ever bigger, harder with the fear — no, the _certainty_ — of what’s coming. Harder, so much harder, to cope with the heat and the light and the pain when she’s also feeling frightened, when she only needs to look at the horizon and imagine a different kind of heat on her neck, of torches and pitchforks and words thrown like the keenest weapons.

She slows down. Slows until she’s almost crawling, not because she’s tired but because she’s afraid. Slows so much that even Pigsy overtakes her.

Not so much, though, that she doesn’t notice when Monkey starts looking at her over his shoulder, or that she doesn’t hear what he says when he starts murmuring to Tripitaka.

“—just think it would be better for everyone if we leave her outside.”

Tripitaka makes an irritated noise. “She’s not a puppy, Monkey.”

“She followed you home. Literally. And now we can’t get rid of her.”

“ _Monkey_.”

“Look, I’m not suggesting we tie her to a tree and order her to stay—”

“Good. Because she would.”

“Yeah, I know.” He sounds a little chastened. That’s unexpected. “And that’s not what I mean. I don’t...”

And he sighs so heavily it almost breaks up the conversation.

Almost. But Tripitaka won’t let him take the easy way out. “Monkey...”

“Look. She’s good. A bit weird, but talented. And I don’t... I mean, when I said we can’t get rid of her, I didn’t mean...”

“I know.” And now the monk’s voice is like laughter, like cool bubbling water, and Sandy suddenly remembers why she spent so many years wrapping his name around her heart. “Is it possible you don’t actually dislike having her around?”

“No.” He’s growling, but there’s no bite to it. “I just owe her. You know, after I almost killed her. That’s all. You don’t have to make it _complicated_.”

“Of course not. We wouldn’t want that, would we?”

But then Monkey is serious again, and seriousness is not a pleasant thing on him.

“It’s nothing personal,” he says. “It’s just... the way she looks, the way she talks, the way she acts? People will talk.”

“So what?” And it is deeply, deeply painful that he needs to ask. “People talk about _you_ all the time.”

“Yeah. Sure.” He’s speaking so slowly, she can practically hear him grinding his teeth. “But no-one’s ever mistaken _me_ for a demon.”

And there it is.

And Sandy is not prepared for how much it hurts.

Even now, after all this time.

Even after all these years, all these decades. Even after—

Even after a _lifetime_ of this. Still, she is not prepared.

And Tripitaka sighs softly and sadly, and says, “Oh.”

And Monkey says, “It could be a pretty big problem.”

And Tripitaka doesn’t tell him it won’t be.

*

She doesn’t wait for him to bring it up.

It’s not easy, picking up speed when she’s been stumbling and crawling. It’s hard, finding the strength to walk quickly when all she wants to do is curl up on the ground and wither away. It is so very difficult, bracing herself to talk about this with the one person in all the world she so desperately wants to impress.

But she will try. There is little she can do out here in this too-sharp world, but she can still _try_.

She picks up speed, tripping only slightly over the uneven ground, and she matches pace with Tripitaka and Monkey. And she looks at Monkey with a sad pleading look and doesn’t break eye-contact, no matter how badly she wants to, until he gets the message and drops back out of earshot.

And she looks down at Tripitaka, and she tries to breathe through the heat and the light and the pain, and tries, tries, _tries_ to find the words to make this sound right.

And Tripitaka says, without even giving her a chance, “We are _not_ leaving you outside the village.”

Sandy blinks. “How could you possibly—”

“Sandy, you’re the least subtle eavesdropper I’ve ever known.”

“...oh.”

And she tries not to feel too disappointed that she never got to deliver the speech she’d barely thought up.

Tripitaka sighs. He reaches out, careful and a little tentative, like he knows she’s a wild thing, and only touches her when he’s sure she won’t flinch. Which—

Which she doesn’t. Even though it’s hard. Because he is who he is and she’s spent half her life waiting for a chance to do what he tells her. And if what he tells her is _this_ —

Well. She will find a way not to flinch.

He touches her arm just briefly, then he takes her by the hand, and when he squeezes her fingers Sandy thinks she might have to take back everything she’s thought about his soft, un-boy-like touches because suddenly his grip is like steel.

And he watches her swallow, watches her struggle. And then he says again, even more softly, “We’re not leaving you outside the village.”

Sandy swallows a bit more. Harder. Her throat is parched, but her mouth tastes thick with acid. But she still doesn’t flinch. She has that, at least.

And she says, paving over the helplessness with something harder, “Even if I want you to?”

“Even then.” And he drops his voice to a whisper. “I know you’re afraid it’ll be like it was in Palawa, but it won’t be. I promise—”

“No.” She bites her tongue, relishes the sting, a jolt of pain that is hers to control. “You can’t promise that.”

“Yes, I can.”

He must know it’s a lie, must realise it’s impossible. But he says it, and he squeezes her hand again, so hard she wants to cry. Worse, so hard she wants to believe him.

“I...”

“You’re not a demon, Sandy.” His voice is like his touch now, like steel and strength. “And we’ll make sure they all know that.”

It’s a sweet thing to say. Very sweet.

And she wants to believe him.

Does believe him, for the most part.

But there are moments, even now, when she doubts.

Even now, knowing the truth as she does, still there are moments when she looks down at herself, at her hair and her clothes and her body, when she fingers the string of bones around her neck and takes in the reek of sewer and solitude, when she absorbs everything she is, everything she’s always been, and wonders — has to wonder, really — if maybe they were right about her all along, right from the start.

And she shivers, despite the heat.

“It doesn’t matter,” she says to Tripitaka.

But it does. It matters so much.

And Tripitaka lets go of her hand, and suddenly her palm feels empty and cold. And she shivers some more and wonders if her body has forgotten that it’s burning alive.

“You’re right,” Tripitaka says. “It doesn’t matter. Do you know why?”

Sandy laughs, but shes not sure why. Delirium, possibly. “No. Why?”

And Tripitaka looks at her and through her, like he can see every part of her. And he says, without hesitation, “Because you need to get out of the sun.”

Sandy feels sick.

She feels _seen_.

She feels visible.

She feels ripped apart, like her insides have been dissected. And she tries to pull her hood up over her head, tries to crawl inside herself and hide like she always does, like she always has—

But Tripitaka takes her wrists, fingers circling like a noose, and he holds her fast and he stops her.

Sandy stammers, shivers, but she doesn’t resist. Couldn’t, even if she wanted to.

“I’m not... I don’t... I...”

And Tripitaka just sighs.

“Sandy,” he says, and her name is like a blow; it rocks her. “You’re not subtle. You’ve been faltering for hours. You’ve been disoriented, dizzy, confused...” He smiles wryly. “Uh. More so than usual, I mean.” And he sobers again. “When was the last time you spent more than a few minutes in daylight?”

Sandy doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to; she knows he knows.

Tripitaka nods, though, like she said the words. “You need to get out of the sun. You know you do.”

Well, yes. She does know that. But—

But this is all so _new_.

Not being the only one who knows it, not being the only one affected by her weakness. Having other people nearby, close enough to look at her, close enough to reach out and _touch_ —

She’s never been this visible before. She’s never been seen, never had all her hiding places stolen and stripped away, never been left with no protection but her failing, faltering body.

Moments like this have only ever ended in pain for everyone. She doesn’t know how to exist in one that won’t.

And Tripitaka is looking at her like she should, like this is what it means to live on the surface, like it should be second nature to think and feel and understand these things. And Sandy doesn’t know what to do or how to react or how to explain that she doesn’t, that she _can’t_.

All she knows how to do is hide. And he won’t let her do that. So all that’s left is to frown at him and struggle in vain against his grip and his eyes and her own uselessness.

“I’m not afraid of the sun,” she says.

She is, of course, but she can’t let him know that.

And he cannot know that she is much more afraid of _this_.

“I don’t care if you’re afraid of it,” Tripitaka says. He’s still holding her by the wrists, but his grip is softer now, like he’s trying to comfort instead of restrain. “I care that it’s hurting you.” 

Sandy has no idea how to respond to that. So she says the first thing — the only thing — she can think of:

“Am I slowing you down so very much?”

And Tripitaka stares at her like she’s just said the most awful thing in the whole world.

He lets go of her wrists and takes a long step backwards, and he never stops staring. And Sandy wants to ask what she did wrong this time, except she’s already used up all the moisture in her mouth.

“No,” Tripitaka says at last. “No, you’re not slowing us down at all.”

And Sandy sighs, deep and heavy and exhausted, because this is so _difficult_. “Then I don’t understand.”

“I...” He opens his mouth, then shakes his head and shuts it again. “I can see that.”

And he finally stops staring.

But then he starts looking sad instead, and small, and still so unlike a boy, and Sandy doesn’t understand that either. 

*

Pigsy explains it a little later.

He drops back a little to match her pitiful pace, then he elbows her in the ribs and says, “He _cares_ about you, you silly goose.”

Sandy looks down at the ground, waits for her vision to stop blurring before she tries to speak. “Thought you were leaving me alone.”

“I was.” It doesn’t help; even without looking up, she can _hear_ him grinning. “But apparently you need this stuff explained to you.”

She flushes.

Well. Tries to flush, anyway.

It’s not something her skin really knows how to do.

She doesn’t want to know what she must look like to him, head bowed and hiding in plain sight, unable to even blush like a normal person. She doesn’t want to know how stupid she must seem, how ignorant compared to a god who has lived so much longer than she has, who has seen and done and experienced so much.

Who has done so many things.

So many terrible things.

 _Unspeakable_ —

“Go away,” she says, focusing every fibre of her being on the ground, on the dust as it seems to dance around her boots, on everything she can see that isn’t him. “I don’t need you to explain things.”

“Apparently you do.”

He has no trouble keeping pace with her — she must really be slowing them down, she thinks, if even Pigsy can keep up without breaking a sweat — and refuses to go away until she lifts her weary, pounding head and looks at him.

“Then explain,” she snaps. “But do it quickly. Because I have a headache and your voice isn’t helping at all.”

He chuckles. “Believe it or not, you’re not the first to—”

She _glares_.

He clears his throat.

“So, uh, anyway.” And he’s grinning again, and it takes all of her strength, what little there is, to keep from vomiting on his stupid traitorous boots. “This whole friendship thing? Kind of means you actually care about the other people involved.”

“I do know that.” Still, she feels ashamed. “I’m not stupid.”

“Right.” He coughs again, only slightly less awkwardly. “Yeah, of course not. Just not the sort who’s had many friends to practice on, eh?”

“Something like that.”

“Uh huh.” He makes a noise she can’t make sense of. Amusement and... something else. Hurts her head to try and figure it out. “Must be your winning personality.”

“It didn’t win me any friends among demons, if that’s what you mean.” She feels her jaw clench against her will. It makes her headache worse, but she can’t seem to stop it. “But I suppose that was your job, not mine.”

“Ah. Touché.”

And she is angry now. Angry because he doesn’t seem to care. Angry because, even if he does, he has the strength and the presence of mind to pretend he doesn’t.

Angry because maybe she’s a little jealous of that, in spite of herself.

“I would sooner be friendless,” she says, “than do what you did.”

She says it simply, because that’s all she’s capable of, but somehow it doesn’t feel very simple at all.

And when she glances up she finds that he suddenly looks very, very tired.

“Smart girl,” he says quietly.

Sandy ducks her head again, goes back to squinting at the dust on her boots.

“I don’t...” she says.

And stops.

And sighs.

He sighs too. Doesn’t touch her, though. He’s better than Tripitaka at that. Good at boundaries, good at giving her space. Good at—

Well. Possibly.

Could be he’s just worried she’d break his fingers if he tried.

She’s not entirely sure she wouldn’t.

But for all his boundaries and space-giving, he’s not afraid to look at her. Directly, even. He cocks his head at her hip, at the heavy weight in her pocket where she keeps her journal and all her other private, secret thoughts, like it’s not the worst invasion in the world. Like touching her wouldn’t be less so, maybe.

And he doesn’t sigh again, but his breath is heavier than it should be when he says, “Not so simple in real life, is it?”

Sandy blinks so rapidly her vision starts to swim again.

“What?”

“All that poetic stuff.” And he gestures dramatically, like he’s reciting something. “All that ‘our heroes’ and ‘the bonds of friendship’ and whatever other rubbish you’ve been scribbling in that thing.”

“I don’t...” Her stomach clenches. “Please, stop.”

“Sure, sure. A bit personal, right? Even if you do read the whole thing out loud for everyone to hear.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t—”

But she doesn’t finish. Won’t finish.

She has many reasons to be sorry, many reasons to be ashamed of the way she can’t keep her tongue separate from her brain. Many reasons to apologise for who and what she is, but she won’t apologise to _him_.

Not that he cares. He’s still talking, still ripping up the parts of herself that she writes down like they’re worth nothing more than the paper they’re scrawled on. Like she’s worth less even than that.

“Point is,” he’s saying, “it’s easy to write it down. Make it all pretty and prosaic and pretend you know what it’ll be like. Easy, right?”

She bites her tongue. “You know more about _easy_ than I do.”

“Yeah.” His expression darkens, but just for a moment. “Only it’s not really, is it? Because one day you look up from all that pretty poetry and realise you don’t have a bloody clue how any of it actually works.”

Sandy tightens her fingers over her pocket, like she can somehow shield her journal, her words, her _thoughts_ from his prying and his presence. The tattered, moth-eaten fabric is the only protection she has out here, and it’s not very effective at all.

“I’ll figure it out,” she mumbles. “I’m _not_ stupid.”

“Yeah, I know. You said that before.”

But he doesn’t sound like he really believes her.

*

He’s not wrong.

Not completely. Not in any of the ways that matter. Not—

Not at all, really.

Sandy learned a long, long time ago how to dissect things, how to take them apart to see how they worked. Fish, as a child, in the too-short time before they start talking to her, but never again after that. Other things when she got older, things that have no voices.

Things that were already dead, like the bones around her neck, or things that were never alive in the first place.

Ripples and bubbles and pressure, water in all its beautiful, dangerous forms.

Words, thoughts, poems. The easiest and the safest. They come from inside.

Then people. The looks on their faces, the subtle and not-so-subtle shifts when they lie or try to hide things. The way they move when they feel threatened or when they want to be threatening.

She has studied people from the inside out, from the safety of the shadows. Learned when to duck and when to run. Learned when to vanish. Learned when to _hide_.

Always. That’s when. Always.

Never learned this, though. Never learned how to dissect soft things, kind things, things that don’t want to dissect her too. Never learned to understand things like frowns or feelings or—

 _Friendship_.

She could write an epic poem about that. Wouldn’t even need to think about it, really. The contents of her head — and her heart, maybe — spill out onto the page like it’s second nature, and it is so easy to sit and write it all down.

But to look up and see that it’s become real? To open her eyes and her mind and her heart and _live_ with it?

To understand why Tripitaka cares about her, why it should matter to him that she suffers under the sun? To make sense of the way Pigsy tries to connect with her, the way he tries to move on and make amends for all the terrible things he did? To even try and comprehend the way they _look_ at her?

She can’t.

She—

She _can’t_.

The world outside her head is loud and bright and it makes no sense and she will never, ever, _ever_ understand it.

And she tries. She tries _so hard_.

But she doesn’t and she can’t and she’s not good enough to—

Not good enough at all.

She feels like she’s learned nothing. Like she’s incapable of learning, maybe. Like she’s spent too much of her life underground to ever truly adapt to the world above. Like maybe her life has left her too sensitive or too severed to ever reconnect with what should be so simple. And that—

No. She won’t accept that. She can’t.

She lived here once before. Long, long ago. Before she was a god, she was human. Or she thought she was. And she lived in the sun and she thrived in daylight and she was _normal_.

She needs to get that back.

Needs to remember how she felt.

Needs to adjust, needs to adapt. Needs to—

Needs to become that way again.

She needs—

She—

She _can’t_.

And so she hides some more.

Hides her face beneath her hood, shielded from the sun and from their eyes. Hides her discomfort and her misery behind hunched shoulders and a ducked head and the sweat fusing her fingers to her scythe. Hides her eyes, keeps them fixed on the dust and the ground, doesn’t let herself look up to find out for sure if they’re staring.

Hides because hiding is survival, because it always has been. Hides because it is the one thing, the only thing she _does_ understand.

And when Tripitaka falls back to try and speak with her again, she pretends she doesn’t see or hear or notice him at all. 

*

The next time she dares to looks up, the village is practically on top of them.

It’s smaller than Palawa, but it seems to loom over her like a living, breathing thing, a monster made up of buildings and walls and the promise — the _threat_ — of people everywhere.  


Seeing it suddenly so close, close enough that she could count the bricks in the walls, Sandy feels a ripple of panic grip her whole body.

She stops.

Tries to breathe.

Tries to—

But the fear knots in her stomach, twists and tightens and clenches, and what should be breathing feels more like _heaving_ , like rancid air choking her throat, like dry soundless nausea sticking to the back of her mouth.

She bends over, hands braced on her knees. Tries to untangle the knots inside of her, tries to hold the panic down. Tries to breathe, tries to—

 _Swallows_ , too hard and too thick and too—

“Too much sun?”

Tripitaka. He sounds uneasy. Worried, maybe? Sandy doesn’t know how to process that particular sentiment, and it doesn’t make her feel any better.

She keeps her face hidden. Coughs a couple of times to be sure she’s not about to start heaving, and definitely, definitely doesn’t look up.

“No,” she says, when she’s sure. “No, I’m well.”

“Sandy—”

“I’m _well_ , Tripitaka.”

And she straightens up and turns away from the village, away from her companions, away from everything. Squints up at the sun and lets it blind her. Doesn’t move or speak or do anything. Just waits for the fear to ease its grip on her insides, just a little.

Pigsy, oblivious as ever, laughs and slaps her back. “Good thing you skipped lunch, eh?” he says.

And then he grins that _grin_ , and—

And Sandy will not allow herself to be sick in front of him.

She swallows a few more times, composes herself, then turns back to Tripitaka.

“May I have a moment to myself, please?”

And Tripitaka sighs like he’s been waiting for this.

“You can have all the moments you want,” he says, “once we’re _inside_ the village.”

Just like that. No room for discussion. He’s convinced himself he knows what will happen if he crosses that threshold without her, so completely certain that she’ll turn and run away the instant she’s left alone.

Sandy doesn’t even bother to pretend he’s not right.

“A moment,” she says again, miserable. “Is it really so much to ask?”

Tripitaka opens his mouth, probably to point out again that she’s ‘not subtle’, but he doesn’t get the chance.

Monkey is not a likely saviour, but there he is, squaring his jaw and stepping between them like there’s nothing strange in it at all. Like he didn’t try to kill her just two days ago. Like he’s not—

No matter.

He does what he does, seemingly without a thought.

“Go ahead,” he says to Tripitaka. “I’ll keep an eye on her.”

Tripitaka doesn’t seem to trust him any more than he trusts Sandy. Eyes narrowed, he frowns at them both like he thinks they’re co-conspirators in some awful crime.

Sandy doesn’t point out that he’s looking at the wrong gods if he wants a criminal. Doesn’t want the reminder that Pigsy is there, that he’s probably looking at her too. Doesn’t want to draw any more attention to herself than she has to.

So she shrinks down as small as she can, lets the moment ride itself out between Monkey and Tripitaka, makes herself as passive as she can in deciding her own fate. Hides behind her hood and her scythe and her own self-consciousness, hides until—

Until finally, with obvious frustration, Tripitaka sighs and throws up his hands.

“Fine. But if I come back to find you’ve tied her to a tree...”

“I won’t,” Monkey promises. His eyes are sparkling a bit, though, like he’s maybe a little bit tempted. “It’s not like there are any trees around here anyway.”

“Right. Because _that’s_ why it’s a bad idea.”

He turns away from them, though. Slow and deliberate, like he wants Sandy to see that he’s making this concession for her. Like she doesn’t already know she’s a slave to his whims, like she wouldn’t already follow him to the ends of the world no matter how miserable it made her. Like she wasn’t bound to him long before he was even born.

“Don’t take too long,” he tells them. “The sun’s not getting any cooler.”

“Untrue,” Sandy points out reasonably. “It has to set eventually.”

And Tripitaka just rolls his eyes, like that’s not true either.

*

It doesn’t feel much like a private moment with Monkey there.

Sandy really doesn’t like being not-alone.

It’s almost worse than being completely alone.

She sways on her feet, feels the sun burning her head through her hood, and waits, waits, waits for the panic to release its hold on her. Waits for her legs to get their strength back, waits for her stomach to settle, waits for her lungs and her brain and her body to start working again.

It is so difficult.

She is so _afraid_.

And Monkey—

He just stands there watching her. Like a bodyguard, or maybe a gaoler.

Sandy swallows, straightens up a little, and says, “Why did you do that?”

He shrugs, like there was nothing unusual at all in coming to her rescue.

“Had nothing better to do with my time,” he says, like he really expects her to believe that.

She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t have the strength.

So she closes her eyes instead, and tries to breathe through the thundering of her heart, through the knots and tangles in her stomach, through all the ways her body can’t figure out how to cope with so much input from so many different sources. Tries to remember how it felt to be calm, to be _still_ , to be like the waters in her sewer, stagnant but safe.

And after a long, long silence, Monkey sighs and says, “I won’t let them do it, you know.”

Sandy tries to open her eyes. Fails. Pretends she never wanted to open them anyway. “I don’t understand.”

“Sure you don’t.” And he laughs, but he doesn’t sound amused at all. “We both know what to expect when we walk through those gates. Torches, pitchforks. Angry villagers getting ready to run you through or string you up or—”

He doesn’t finish. Can’t, maybe.

But Sandy can. “Or other things?”

And she finally wrestles her eyes open.

“Yeah.” He’s looking down at the ground, scuffing the dust with his boots the way she does when she wants to hide. “I’ve seen—”

But then his jaw gets tight, and his shoulders as well, and he doesn’t finish. Sandy thinks she sees a flicker of pain behind his eyes, but maybe that’s just the sun.

“I don’t want...” She swallows. Tries again. “I don’t...”

But she can’t seem to finish any more than he could.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says. And then his eyes flash and the pain is gone, and just like that he’s himself again. “Because it won’t happen. I won’t let it.”

Sandy tries to laugh, but it doesn’t really sound right.

“A whole village,” she says. “You can’t stop them.”

He laughs too, and it sounds much righter than hers.

“I’m the Monkey King. I can stop anyone I please.”

And she has no idea what she’s supposed to say to that. ‘Thank you’, probably, but the last time she said that to him, he looked at her like he thought she was crazy.

She knows he thinks that. Knows they all do. But she’s feeling so raw and so exposed right now, and she couldn’t bear to be reminded of everything that’s wrong with her.

“That’s very optimistic,” she says. And she’s not sure that really sounds right either, but at least this time he’s not looking at her like _that_. “One of you against a whole angry village?”

“Two of us,” he points out, with a grin that doesn’t touch his eyes. “I’ve seen you fight. You’re... capable.”

“A compliment?”

She’s not completely sure. It sounds sort of sideways.

“Just stating the facts.”

And his smile twists into a smirk, smug but sober, the sort of look that softens her stomach a little bit.

“Oh,” she manages.

“Yeah.” But then he looks at the fading bruise his staff left on her throat and all that soft-sober-smugness dissolves into nothing. “Look. If I’m not allowed to kill you, no-one else is either. That’s just the way it is. Understand?”

“Ah, yes.” She wishes she could smile as easily as he does. Wishes she could pretend, at least. “A point of pride.”

“Exactly. You get killed by someone else, you make me look bad. And I do not like looking bad.” He looks at her, then, with sharp eyes and sharper teeth. “So let’s not make me look bad.”

Sandy thinks about that.

And about other things.

Thinks that maybe there are worse things angry villagers can do than run her through with pitchforks or string her up, worse things than trying to kill her at all. Thinks that maybe Monkey is missing the bigger picture when he makes it so simple. Thinks that maybe he doesn’t understand it’s not the violence that frightens her but the thought of all those eyes, angry or afraid or otherwise, all _staring_.

But she also thinks — and it is frightening too, in its own way — that there is something strange and new and maybe a little bit comforting in the way he bares his teeth and gets sharp all over, the way he threatens war against anyone who would try to harm her.

And that—

She doesn’t know how she should feel about that.

How could she?

Nothing like this has ever happened to her before.

Nothing even close.

And she looks at Monkey, all square shoulders and square jaw and desperately pretending it’s all about pride and nothing else, and she thinks that maybe this feels easier than all of Tripitaka’s efforts to make her do things that frighten her and all of Pigsy’s efforts to explain things that never needed explaining. They try and try and try, but they don’t understand her and she doesn’t understand them.

This, though?

This is simple. Even if it’s not really. Even if it’s just pretending to be.

And Monkey doesn’t need to try, and he doesn’t need to explain, and he doesn’t need to push or prod or do anything at all. He just stands there and watches over her when she needs a moment, and he tells her that he won’t let anyone else hurt her, and that’s all there is to him.

To her, too, possibly.

He has his staff in his hands; he’s not afraid to use it if he has to. That’s all she needs to know. Simple, like he is. Like they both are, maybe.

“I won’t make you look bad,” she promises in a low whisper.

And what she really means is _thank you_.

But this time he doesn’t look at her like she’s lost her mind.

*


	3. Like You Could Disappear

*

And so they enter the village.

Her and Monkey, his staff and her scythe, and—

And Sandy is utterly terrified.

Not without reason. At least, not without the voice of experience screaming and calling itself reason. Hard to tell the difference sometimes, with so many voices all clamouring for attention.

But reason or no, there are _people_. And they are turning to _look_ at them. And whether their intentions are harmful or not, their eyes still cut through her nerves like little blades.

And she knew it would come, the stares and the whispers, but anticipating the moment doesn’t make it any less frightening. Doesn’t stop her blood freezing in her veins when she catches their eyes. Doesn’t stop her wondering which of the whispers will be the first to evolve into a shout.

Monkey, being Monkey, pre-empts it by drawing the attention to himself.

It is almost comical, the way he sets his feet apart, twirls his staff above his head, and declares with utter seriousness, “Good people, I am the Monkey King and I demand your hospitality.”

 _Demand_.

If she wasn’t so afraid of being seen, Sandy might laugh.

As it is, she grips her scythe as tightly as she can and waits for the inevitable, the moment when someone opens their eyes and their mouth and wonders—

“What’s the Monkey King doing with a _demon_?”

And Sandy, seared by the sun and scorched by their scrutiny, shivers like she’s been trapped in snow and ice.

Monkey keeps her behind him, keeps his body between hers and the rocks they haven’t started throwing yet.

“She’s not a demon,” he says, a little too hasty to really convince anyone. “She’s my, uh, vassal.”

Sandy’s eyes widen. “Your _what_?”

“You know.” And he flexes his big arms like this was his plan all along. “My loyal servant.”

Sandy is not sure that’s really any better than being a demon.

But at least they don’t start throwing things.

*

The village feels wrong.

At least, it makes _her_ feel wrong.

Discomfort prickles under her skin as she walks through the streets, and she can’t tell whether it’s real or just because the people are staring at her. She wants to know if Monkey is feeling it as well, but she can’t see very much of him from behind and she really doesn’t want to draw any attention to herself by asking.

Or speaking at all. Or moving too quickly. Or doing anything, really.

She wants to turn to mist, but somehow she thinks that would draw more attention to her, not less. Funny how invisibility has quite the opposite effect when used against a crowd.

Funny. But somehow not very amusing at all.

So she hides under her hood instead. Keeps it pulled down over her eyes, shielding herself from theirs, until Monkey turns around to glare at her.

“Take that stupid thing off.” He looks a bit edgy, like he half-expects the crowd to turn on them at any moment no matter who he is or what he says. “You’ll only make things worse if they can’t see your face.”

Sandy laughs. No amusement there, either.

“From my experience,” she says quietly, “things get worse when they _can_ see it.”

But Monkey doesn’t stop glaring until she does as he says.

The skin on her face feels scorched and seared when the sun strikes it, so hot that she almost hits her knees. She wonders if she’s able to burn, if even the sun can set fire to water. She doesn’t think she’d like to know.

It’s not very much of a blessing, being too sun-blind and disoriented to see their faces. She can still hear the whispers and murmurs, can still feel their voices vibrating like a threat along her nerves.

Monkey hurries her along, nudging her with his staff every now and then. Maybe he’s trying to protect her, maybe he’s just trying to get her out of the line of fire. Either way, he’s lacking in patience and it shows.

They find Pigsy and Tripitaka waiting outside a tavern.

Small building. Big sign, badly painted, depicting a strange sort of bird with its head cocked up to the sky. Looking at it makes Sandy’s insides squirm, but she can’t say why. 

“Took your time,” Pigsy says, with that sickening grin of his.

Sandy avoids his eye. Looks up at the painted bird and lets the discomfort break over her in waves.

“I don’t think we should stay here.”

“Sandy.” And Tripitaka heaves a great heavy sigh, like he’s been waiting for this. Just like before. Like she is so predictable to him, and so irritating. “It’s just a tavern. It’s not going to bite you.”

Sandy tears her gaze away from the sign, ducks her head and studies her boots. Monkey might have taken away her hood but she can still keep her face hidden. A little bit, at least.

“Might do,” she says, a little sullenly. “Wouldn’t be the first one that did.”

Tripitaka groans. “ _Sandy_.”

And that’s all he needs to say. Just her name and his voice, and she knows there’s no point in pursuing this. No point in even trying; she’s as bound as Monkey’s crown to his will.

So she pouts her surrender, but doesn’t lift her head.

“If it does bite,” she mutters, “don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

*

The tavern does not bite, but Sandy feels its teeth just the same.

It’s very crowded, more people than should probably exist in a single space, and every pair of eyes turn to the door as it opens.

Sharp eyes, like sharp teeth. Sandy feels them piercing all the places where the sun has made her too sensitive.

A part of her knows it should be a comfort, stepping into the shade after so much heat and light, but it’s not. 

Quite the opposite: the crowd of people, the hum of voices, the _noise_ assaults her senses just as violently as everything else, and the darkness is momentarily blinding, too intense after all day in the light.

That is—

That is _new_.

Sandy has never, ever had trouble seeing in the dark before.

Now all of a sudden it’s nearly as harsh as the sunlight was.

Is there anything left she _can_ endure?

The place is overwhelming. This she can tell in less than a second. Too many bodies too close together, too many voices all overlapping and trying to drown each other out, too many faces blurring and shifting as they move and—

And Pigsy, of all people, rubs her back and whispers, “Easy, now.”

And Sandy shudders and thinks, _yes, it’s supposed to be, isn’t it?_

And then Monkey shoves her behind him again, and announces in a big, booming voice that he is the Monkey King and he expects to be supplied with enough food and drink to satisfy an army.

It—

Well. It _sort of_ works.

Which is more than Sandy expected, frankly.

More than Tripitaka expects too, if the stunned, horrified look on his face is anything to go by.

He elbows Monkey sharply in the ribs, and he’s about halfway through a jaw-clenched, gritted-out ‘be quiet!’ when the barkeep puts her hand on her hips, clears her throat, and says—

“ _You’re_ the Monkey King?”

The disbelief is hilarious, all things considered.

But Monkey flexes and preens like she’s just dropped to her knees in worship. “Indeed I am!”

She studies him for a second or two with narrowed eyes, then shrugs her shoulders.

“Thought you’d be taller.”

Tripitaka giggles, high and giddy, like he’s forgotten for a moment that he’s a monk.

And Monkey just stands there with his mouth hanging open.

“I was trapped in a rock,” he splutters. “For five hundred years!”

“Was it a magical shrinking rock?”

And now Pigsy is laughing as well.

And the majority of the tavern’s patrons. And—

And it is a comfort, in a way, because none of them have even noticed her at all. But it’s also loud and riotous, and the noise goes on and on and on until Sandy is certain that her head will explode.

She never imagined mirth could hurt so much.

But it does. Oh, it does.

So many people, so much sound, so much chaos, so much—

So _much_.

She inches backwards, towards the door.

Never imagined, either, that she’d choose the heat and the light. But anything has to be better than all this noise and chaos and laughter. Even the sun has to be better than _this_.

But Tripitaka stops her before she’s made it even a few steps.

His eyes are still lit up a bit with fading laughter, young and beautiful and strange, but his hand is tight on her arm and as he catches her eye he draws his mouth into a thin, tight line.

“Sandy.”

She shakes her head. Tries to speak, but her throat is completely closed up.

Tripitaka’s grip tightens, but at the same time his expression grows a little softer. The laughter is gone from his eyes now, but he looks nothing like a boy when he finds a small encouraging smile.

“It’s really not that bad,” he says.

And Sandy doesn’t have the heart to tell him that yes, it really, really is.

*

They crowd around a table.

It’s a tight fit, the four of them all squished together like that, and Sandy feels like she’s too small and too tall at the same time. Her limbs feel impossibly long for such a small space, but she has Monkey on one side and Pigsy on the other and somehow her body fits effortlessly between them.

Monkey orders food and drink, and the barkeep is more than happy to provide it, insisting that the laugh he gave her is worth his weight in food and more besides.

And there is a lot of it. Far too much.

There are four of them, only four, but there is enough food and drink for three times that number. And Pigsy is delighted, and Monkey is as happy as he ever gets without actually having to admit he’s happy, and even Tripitaka takes a bit of time to stop looking at Sandy and indulge himself.

A very very small amount of time.

But then he sees her sitting there, disconnected and not touching anything, and he sighs again.

“Sandy.”

“I’ve already explained this—”

“Eat something.”

“I can survive days without—”

“ _Sandy_.”

But how is she supposed to make him understand?

How is she supposed to explain to someone who has never hidden from anything that she can’t afford to be caught with her hands or her mouth or her stomach full? How is she supposed to explain to a monk that she cannot be distracted when all these rowdy, noisy, chaotic people stop laughing for long enough to see her? How is she supposed to to make him see that she cannot be slowed down by anything when the moment comes that she has to get up and run?

It is so much, and he knows so little, and she doesn’t know where she would even begin.

“Later,” she mumbles. “When it’s quiet and I’m alone.”

Tripitaka opens his mouth—

And again, it’s Monkey who cuts him off to save her.

“Let her do what she wants.”

Hard to say who is more thrown by that, Sandy or Tripitaka.

Thrown or not, Tripitaka is not happy at being undermined. “Monkey—”

“I’m serious.” His mouth is full; the words come out muffled and only half-coherent. “You’re the one who keeps saying she’s not a puppy. So why do you keep treating her like she is?”

“I _don’t_.”

“Yeah, you do.” And he looks at Sandy, sort of sideways, but his expression doesn’t change at all. “She’s smart enough to know what she wants. And if she doesn’t want to eat in a tavern full of people who might want her dead if they get a good look at her face, I call that good sense.”

Sandy tugs at her hood, feeling self-conscious and painfully visible. “Did say that it’s better to keep it covered.”

“Shut up. I’m bailing you out here.”

“Right, yes, sorry. Please continue.”

He doesn’t, but Pigsy does.

“You’re worrying over nothing,” he says, mostly to Tripitaka. “She’s snuck enough bread into her pockets to feed an army.”

And now it’s Sandy’s turn to gape with her mouth open. “How did—”

“Yeah, you’re about as subtle as a rock.” His smirk sets her nerves on edge. “Besides, I know your type.”

“My... type?”

He doesn’t explain. Just turns back to Tripitaka like Sandy was never a part of this conversation at all.

“You can stop fretting,” he says. “She’ll eat when she’s hungry.”

What he means, what he really means, is: _she’ll eat when she feels safe_.

And it is terrifying that he knows that.

*

So, at least for a little while, Tripitaka is content to leave her alone.

Sandy wishes that were enough to make her feel better.

But the noise is still noise and the people are still _people_ , and she cannot relax at all. Her stomach is so tense it hurts, and when she tries to breathe all she can taste is sour ale and smoke and her own choking panic.

And it is stupid and it is humiliating, and she hates that she is still so afraid even after so many years of living like this, and she hates that the world is so big and so sharp, and she hates—

Herself.

A lot.

And even though he doesn’t talk to her, Tripitaka still looks at her every now and then, like he’s trying to figure out why everything isn’t miraculously fixed now that she’s out of the sun, why the disorientation and confusion and dizziness haven’t just washed away now that the heat isn’t burning her head and the light is out of her eyes.

Because maybe they should have. Maybe she should—

She should feel better now.

Should _be_ better.

But she doesn’t and she’s not. Her head is still throbbing, and she still can’t see anything. And she still feels like the world is too sharp, too loud, and too much.

And if getting out of the sun wasn’t enough to make that feeling disappear, she doesn’t know what will. She doesn’t know if _anything_ will. And if that’s the case—

If she’s going to feel like this forever—

Just the thought makes her feel like she’s about to break apart from the inside.

She swallows and shivers and feels so, so miserable.

And it has been years, so many years, since the last time she cried, but all of a sudden that’s the only thing in the world she wants to do.

She doesn’t, though. Not here. She can’t. She’s not—

Not _safe_.

So, instead, she makes herself as small as she can. Huddles into the tiny sliver of space between Pigsy and Monkey, and buries herself in her journal.

Writes as much as she can about the world around her. Tries to dissect it, like she learned to dissect everything. 

Writes down bits and pieces of the conversations she hears around her, tries to navigate a path through the chaos and clamour, tries to wrangle the words into sentences or song, into anything she might be able to comprehend.

It doesn’t really work. All she gets are fragments, a jumbled mess of half-sentences and half-words and laughter that makes no more sense on the page than in the air.

She takes great care not to read the words out loud this time. Takes great care to keep everything inside, keep it all hidden, though she doubts it will stop them staring.

Safer, though, to hide behind the pen and paper than look up and see for sure. Safer, if not really _safe_ , to hide in plain view. And so she does. Hides and writes; what else can she do?

Pages and pages, she writes. Pages and pages of fragmented ramblings and incoherent delirium — theirs, for once, not her own — and she wonders if one day she’ll read over the mess and laugh at herself for not understanding.

She hopes so.

And she also sort of hopes not.

It’s... difficult.

She wants so much to be better than what she is. But to be like them? So loud and chaotic and everywhere and everything all at once?

She’s not sure she could ever truly want that. Or manage it, even if she did.

She’s not sure how long they let her stay that way, head bowed and isolated, but she’s scrawled maybe nine or ten pages of other people’s fractures when she feels a big hand drop down onto her shoulder.

She thinks it’s Pigsy, but it’s not.

And by the time she looks up and finds herself faced not with his sickening grin but with the barkeep, it’s too late to crawl up into the safety of her hood and vanish.

Too late to try to pretend she’s anything other than what she is.

And for a long endless moment, her whole life flashes before her eyes.

But then the woman thrusts a cup of water into her hands and says, “You look like you could use one of these.”

And she doesn’t try to kill her. And she doesn’t throw anything at her. And—

And that makes no sense at all.

And Sandy just sits there and stammers like an idiot for what feels like an eternity.

The barkeep blinks, then shrugs and turns to Monkey, like it’s all just part of the job.

“Bit weird, your friend,” she says.

And that—

That’s the end of it.

Just that.

And Tripitaka looks at her as if to say, _see, it’s not so bad, is it?_ And Sandy does not understand at all, but at least her head is still attached to her shoulders. And that should be enough, but—

 _But_.

Monkey just smirks and takes it all in stride. Like he expected this, like he wasn’t just as worried as she was. He is so, so good at pretending. Sandy wonders if he’ll teach her how to do that one day.

“Yeah.” And he nudges her and grins up at the barkeep like he’s flirting, and says, “But you get used to it.”

“Uh huh. Need anything else?”

Monkey thinks on that. “A room.”

“A _nice_ room,” Pigsy adds.

And Tripitaka says, “ _Two_ rooms.”

They all stare at him.

He clears his throat, and a red flush climbs up his neck. “It’s a monk thing. We’re not allowed share sleeping space with... uh, non-monks.” And when that doesn’t make them turn away, he flushes even redder and mutters, “You wouldn’t understand.”

Sandy has no doubt that’s true. But she can’t help noting that Tripitaka is very good at remembering the monk things that help him to get what he wants and very bad at remembering the monk things that don’t.

Apparently this specific monk thing is known, though, because the barkeep simply shrugs and moves on without batting an eyelid.

“And is one enough for the rest of you?” she says to Monkey. “Or should I just sign the place over to you?”

“One should be fine,” Monkey says. “We’re not sticking around.”

“More’s the pity,” Pigsy sighs, mostly to himself. “A _nice_ one, remember. Only the best for the Monkey King.”

“Riiiight.”

And she stalks off back to the bar, looking like she wishes she’d never laid eyes on the Monkey King at all.

*

Sandy forgets she’s holding the cup until they’re in their room.

It’s a very nice room.

Nicer than anywhere she’s lived, at least. Which may not be saying much.

Pigsy doesn’t agree, of course. He takes one look at the small space with its two small beds and one small window, and heaves a mournful, melodramatic sigh.

“Is this what passes for ‘nice’ nowadays?” he grumbles.

“Looks nice enough to me,” Sandy says. “That’s a real bed.”

“ _Two_ real beds,” Monkey says. “It’ll do for one night.”

Annoyed at being outnumbered, Pigsy pouts and crosses his arms. Petulance looks better on him, Sandy thinks, than the grin that sours her stomach.

“I’m not taking the floor,” he says.

Sandy looks at the beds, then settles herself on the creaky floorboards with a shrug. “I’m not used to real beds anyway.”

True enough. The beds may be small, but they’re well-built. Proper beds, with frames and mattresses and pillows and all sorts of decadent strangeness. She hasn’t slept so far from the ground in longer than she can recall, and she can’t imagine being comfortable surrounded by so much softness and so little solidity.

It must feel terribly unsafe, she thinks. Like being on a boat in rough seas with no anchor to hold her down and no horizon to hold her balance.

Just thinking about it makes her feel a little seasick. She moves to touch the ground with both hands, to anchor herself like she learned to do as a child, and it is only when she finds her right hand already full that she recalls the cup of water.

Pigsy watches her drink with a wry look on his face. “Should’ve given you wine instead,” he says. “That’d loosen you up good and proper.”

“Wouldn’t want that.” She drains the last of the water slowly, and sets the cup aside. “Need my inhibitions intact.”

“Besides,” Monkey says with a smooth smile, “yours are lowered enough for all three of us.”

True. Accustomed as he is to over-indulgence, Pigsy began drinking the moment they sat down, and didn’t stop until the moment they left the table. Once he falls into bed, Sandy is certain he will sleep heavily until morning.

A part of her envies him. The rest can’t fathom feeling so utterly safe.

Rather than think about it, she turns to Monkey. “What about yours?”

He flexes a little. “As sharp as ever.”

That has to be at least mostly untrue, she thinks, because he looks at her and he gets sort of soft and gentle from his head right down to his feet. And that—

That is something he simply doesn’t do. Growing soft, getting gentle. Certainly not if his inhibitions really were intact. But here he is, looking at her that way like it’s normal, like it’s just the way he is.

Sandy feels—

She’s not sure she likes being the subject of his softness.

She pulls up her hood.

“I wish you’d stop looking at me.”

And he goes tense all over. And Sandy realises she’s said the wrong thing, but she can’t figure out why.

“Yeah?” His voice is as tight as hers. “Well, _I_ wish you’d stop hiding under that stupid thing.”

And then they both sigh, at the same time but for very different reasons.

*

Pigsy falls asleep very quickly.

Monkey does not.

He lies on his back, stretched out and visibly uncomfortable, and for a little while it’s just quiet breathing and the creaking of the mattress when he moves.

Then he takes in a deep breath, like he’s bracing for something terrible, and when he finally opens his mouth to speak it’s with his gaze locked firmly on the ceiling.

Sandy would like to think that’s deliberate, but who can say?

“I shouldn’t have said it was stupid,” he mumbles.

And maybe it is deliberate, after all. But maybe it’s for his sake as much as hers.

Sandy is wide awake, of course. She doubts she could sleep, even if she wanted to, and so she doesn’t try. She’s sitting up with her back to the wall, hugging her knees and trying to make herself invisible. It isn’t working very well, but at least she has the solace of knowing that no-one is looking at her, that no-one can see how badly she’s failing to hide.

She’s uncomfortable with that. It’s the one thing she’s good at, hiding. Hiding means surviving; failing means suffering. It’s not an option.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, and tries to shrink a little more.

Monkey growls his aggravation.

“Yeah, you do.” And he sits up a little and gestures with both hands, mimics her pulling her hood over her head. “That cowering thing you do. Hiding inside that thing like you think it’ll protect you. I mean, you don’t need me to tell you it won’t.”

“No, I don’t.” She swallows thickly. “I know it won’t protect me. I know it’s... I know it’s _stupid_.”

Her voice breaks, and she hates it. Hates that she has become so visible even in the dark.

If he notices, Monkey pretends he doesn’t. “So why bother?”

Sandy feels so small, so utterly foolish, but she’s already so exposed and so vulnerable; what is left to her but the truth?

“Because it’s all I have.”

Monkey lies back down. And this time it’s definitely deliberate, the way he rolls over so he’s facing away from her, the way he gives her privacy to breathe and not be seen, the way he gives himself privacy, maybe, to do the same. Has to be on purpose, that.

“That might have been true yesterday,” he says, in a low, heavy voice. “But it’s not true today.”

And Sandy has no idea how to feel about that.

Thankful, probably. Touched, definitely. Possibly a new kind of connection to the words she writes in her journal, the private thoughts that come from inside herself, the words she’s spent her whole life shaping, stories and fantasies of a perfect new family that isn’t afraid of her.

And perhaps she does feel like that, a little bit.

But she also feels more frightened than she’s ever felt in her life.

And she cannot, for the life of her, fathom why.

*

They don’t talk very much after that.

Predictable, really. Monkey isn’t comfortable talking about his feelings and Sandy isn’t comfortable talking in general. It was never likely to last more than a moment.

Monkey falls asleep soon enough, anyway, flat on his back and very still.

It’s a nice change from the nightmares she saw the last time she watched him sleep. Nice to see him at peace now, even just a little bit. Nice to seem him looking so restful, so comfortable. He’s earned that.

She could, however, do without his not-so-gentle snoring.

And Pigsy’s too, for that matter.

And—

Everything, really. _Everything_.

It’s not exactly noisy, this little room in a tavern in the middle of the night. She has a sneaking suspicion that this is about as quiet as the world ever gets. Only Monkey and Pigsy snoring, only her own breathing, only the rustling of the curtains near the open window and the hazy thrum of night-time creatures buzzing outside. _Quiet_.

By normal standards, at least.

By the standards of people who haven’t lived alone for years and years, who haven’t lived their whole lives in silence but for the rush of water and the voices in her head.

Sandy knows quiet.

Real quiet, absolute quiet.

 _Pure_ quiet.

And this—

This is still too much.

And that is wrong.

 _She_ is wrong.

She should not feel so much.

Shouldn’t feel so—

Shouldn’t still feel so _unsafe_.

She has spent her life crawling through the shadows, waiting for the moon to disappear behind well-placed clouds, stalking in the dead of night, coming alive in the twilight hours just like this. She’s spent almost her entire life in this murky, dull-edged corner of the day, shrouded and submerged and safe. And she knows should feel comfortable. For the first time since they left Palawa, here in the dark, she should feel alive.

But she doesn’t.

She feels scorched and scalded, seared and scared, and—

And maybe the sun has burned her on the inside as well as the outside. Maybe that’s why her nerves feel like they’ve been flayed. Maybe that’s why she’s so sensitive to every shift in the air, ever sound, every flicker of moonlight through the curtains.

Maybe.

Hard to say. She’s never been out in the world for so long before. So many hours without reprieve, without even a moment of silence or solitude, with no end in sight to the maelstrom and the mayhem and the mess.

This is as still as it’s been since they set out, and yet it still feels like so much. Even Monkey’s soft snoring sounds like the screeching of serrated steel.

Trying to think through it makes her ache, inside and out. Makes her stomach clench, makes her head throb, turns all her limbs to dead weight. She needs—

She stands.

Turns to the open window.

The moon is low and bright, and for a moment it leaves her dazzled.

Bad night for hiding. Too much visibility. If she were home—

She’d know better than to leave the sewers on a night like this.

She looks out onto the street. Imagines the water rushing underneath. Tries to capture it in her mind, the quiet, the peace, the solitude, the stillness in motion. She feels it with every part of her, loss like severed senses, longing and loneliness and a strange sort of grief.

She pushes the window a little bit wider. Wide enough for a body, or at least for one as slim as hers. Wide enough for—

Wide enough.

And she closes her eyes, and she reaches deep down inside herself, and she finds the place that knows how to hide even without a hood, the place where it is so easy to just close her eyes and—

 _Disappear_.

*

And she runs.

And she runs.

And she _runs_.

And the world becomes smaller when she runs, and it becomes less frightening when she is like this, hazy and indistinct and close to invisible.

Not perfect, no. But good enough.

Good enough to carry her to where she needs to go. Good enough that no-one can catch her as she goes.

Good enough, yes.

It’s easier than it should be, finding a grate that leads to the sewers. Same everywhere, why should it be any different here?

Sandy doesn’t know much about the world above ground — next to nothing, honestly — but the one thing she does know is how to find her way to the world below. Doesn’t matter what village, what town or city: there’s always a sewer somewhere. And there is always a way in.

The relief as she plunges into darkness — _real_ darkness, pure and true — is a physical thing, so intense that it stops her in her tracks. The shimmering blue haze of her power dissipates, and her speed and sanctuary along with it, the shroud of mist surrounding her. But it doesn’t matter any more.

No-one down here to catch her. No-one to _see_.

Silence and solace and solitude and so much—

 _Water_.

Water everywhere. Cool, still, precious water. And the only sound is the hum of the creatures living there, the quiet little voices she’s had in her head for as long as she can remember. 

And it is _still_ , everything still except the slow, sloshing rhythm, the heartbeat of the water that she knows as intimately as her own, and everything is still inside of her, finally, _finally_ , and—

And she falls and hits her knees.

And she doesn’t sob, but she desperately wants to.

And she _breathes_.

*

She settles into a quiet corner.

Hard to find, harder still to approach without being heard or seen. If anyone were to come after her, she’d know it long before they even realised where she was.

It’s the safest she’s felt in days.

Takes a little time for her body to get the message, though, to catch up with her surroundings and relax. But it happens. Slowly but surely, it happens.

Her head is still aching, but it’s dull now, a low pulse of pain that she can ignore if she sets her mind to it. After a full day of relentless throbbing, of pain and blindness and skull-splitting misery, it’s so much of a relief she almost cries.

 _Almost_.

Her limbs unwind, loose and relaxed for the first time in far too long. Her eyes adjust to the old familiar darkness, the thoroughness of it, the completeness. And her stomach—

Her stomach _growls_.

And she smiles and fishes her stolen supper out of her pockets.

The bread is not particularly tasty. Hard and somewhat stale, it’s rather the worse for the few hours it spent languishing in her pockets. But it is food and she is mostly safe and very hungry, and so it goes down well enough. Happily, even. When has she ever wanted anything more than what little she needs to sustain her?

She wonders what Tripitaka would think if he saw her like this. If he found out that the desolate, derelict sewers are the only place she feels safe enough to eat. He tries so hard to soften the world for her but he can’t seem to understand why it’s so sharp in the first place.

She doesn’t think she’d want him to understand, really. He is the sweetest monk she’s ever met, and he has the kindest smile of any boy. Light is not something Sandy can endure very well, as a rule, but she couldn’t bear to see the light in him go out by learning how she’s lived.

Some parts of her she keeps hidden for them, not for herself.

When she’s finished eating, when there is nothing left in her pockets but crumbs, when her stomach is full and her body is sated and sleepy, she leans back against the wall. Closes her eyes. Listens to the running, dripping, perfect water.

She feels content. She feels comfortable.

She feels _safe_.

At long last, she feels like she’s truly hidden, a part of the underground, a shadow among shadows, the dark places that no-one else ever visits. She can close her eyes here without being afraid. She can slow her breathing without wondering how much it will hurt. No light, no heat, no noise. No _everything_ assaulting her senses.

No people.

And it isn’t the sewer she made into a home, but it serves just as well. It is the world she knows.

It is _her_ world.

And the wall is cold and wet against her back, and the moisture cools her skin until she doesn’t feel so very much, until she is not so sensitive to every molecule of air. And the dripping, still-but-moving rhythm of the water feels and sounds like a lullaby, like the only arms she ever remembers holding her. And she feels alive and protected, and so much like herself.

And she keeps her eyes closed, and she lets her head grow heavy, and she lets the cool air and the water and the quiet and the soft, sweet shadows wrap themselves around her. And she lets herself pretend that she really is home, if only for a little while.

Lets herself pretend that the sharp, bright, hot, terrible world isn’t out there waiting on the other side of the grate, lets herself pretend she doesn’t have a reason to face it again.

Lets her heavy head fall back against the wall.

Lets her heartbeat grow slower.

Lets her thoughts wander, lets her mind drift.

Lets the darkness grow darker.

Lets the world start to dissolve all around her.

Lets go.

And lets herself sleep.

*


	4. You Will Be Found

*

She wakes, many hours later, with her whole body on edge.

Morning, probably. The ripples in the water catch a glimmer of light through the grate above, too warm for moonlight. It’s weak, though, so likely still early. Not too long after daybreak, she guesses. An hour, maybe two.

She learned a long time ago how to tell the time by the slivers of light or dusk that cut through and into her sewers; it’s as simple as guiding a ship by the stars.

That’s not why she’s awake, though.

Footsteps. That’s why she’s awake.

Heavy, clumsy, approaching from a short distance away. Too loud and much too awkward for someone who’d make their home in a place like this. Unaccustomed to the dark, to the slippery surfaces, to all the things that beat in her blood. She could kill them, if she wanted to, before they ever knew she was there.

Won’t, though. No need. She can already tell it’s not an attack.

Still, she reaches for her weapon and holds herself ready, fluid and automatic, the warm haze of sleep long banished by now. Years of practice, hunting and hunted; she can’t remember the last time she slept deeply enough to feel groggy.

Can’t remember the last time she heard footsteps, either, without immediately knowing what to expect.

“Thought I might find you down here.”

 _Pigsy_.

Not a surprise. Just a disappointment.

Sandy doesn’t lower her scythe, even after he’s shown himself. She knows what she must look like, huddled in the darkest corner she can find, clutching her weapon and pointing it at a so-called friend, but she doesn’t care. This is her world, her sanctuary, and she will bare her teeth to anyone who invades it.

Even a friend.

Which. Well. She’s still not entirely sure he is.

But she’ll give him the benefit of the doubt for now.

“Had to get away from your snoring,” she says.

He laughs. Of course he does.

Her stomach gives an unpleasant lurch at the sound, though, and she grips her scythe a little bit tighter, clenching her teeth. She wonders if she’ll always feel that way when he laughs or smiles, when he is carefree and cheerful. Everyone deserves that, and she knows he really is trying. But—

But she has seen the things he did. And it is—

It is hard enough, having friends at all. But friends who were once enemies?

That’s too much. Too complicated. And so she feels ill.

“You should leave a note next time,” he’s saying. “You know, that poor little monk is beside himself. Reckons you up and ran away under cover of darkness.” His expression sobers, but only slightly. “I told him you were probably just after a bit of peace and quiet. Glad you proved me right instead of him.”

Sandy feels guilty. “He needn’t worry,” she says. “I promised to help and I will.”

“Yeah, I know.” He leans his rake against the wall, careless, like he feels as safe down here as she does, then sits himself down on the wet, slippery ground. “Care to pull up a chair?”

“No chairs down here,” Sandy says sourly.

But she settles beside him just the same. Impressed, in spite of herself, that he would be willing to sit in the dark and dank that is her home as if it was the feather pillows that were his. That he would treat this place as somewhere worth living just because that’s what it is to her.

“Grabbed some breakfast from the kitchens,” he says, fishing a couple of carefully-wrapped packages out of his pocket. “I’d wager you won’t want to eat with me around, but if you feel like stashing it away for later I won’t tell Tripitaka.”

And he hands one of them over.

Sandy turns it over in her hands, tries to figure out what’s inside without opening it. Softer and smaller than last night’s bread. And knowing Pigsy’s appreciation for the finer things...

“Cake?”

He grins, already unwrapping his own package. “What else?”

And he stuffs it into his mouth, whole.

Apparently he really will eat anything, at any time, in any place.

Sandy slips hers into her pocket, taking care not to crush it too much. Saves it for later, just as he predicted. And that—

That bothers her. Like it did last night.

“You know a lot about my eating habits,” she says, trying to ignore the unease skittering up and down her nerves. “Did Locke order you to have me watched?”

“Eh?” His confusion is a comfort. Only a small one, yes, but it’s something. Her stomach unclenches a little, and her fingers slacken on her scythe. “Of course not. Why would she?”

“Lots of reasons.”

She doesn’t elaborate and he doesn’t ask. Easier that way, for both of them.

“Nothing to do with Locke,” he says softly. “I just know your type.”

“Yes. You said that last night.”

He studies her for a bit, chewing noisily. Scrutinises her, really, and she has to fight very hard against her instincts, against the urge to pull up her hood and hide. Pigsy isn’t really like Monkey — he doesn’t get annoyed or frustrated when she does that — but she doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how uncomfortable he makes her.

The way he looks at her sometimes, though, she rather suspects he knows anyway.

“I’ve been around much longer than you,” he says, at last. An explanation, maybe, but it feels like a confession as well. “I’ve seen my share of gods forced into hiding. And spent a fair amount of time pretending I _didn’t_ see them.”

And he looks ashamed and proud at the same time.

Sandy thinks she understands that.

One thing to pretend he doesn’t see the suffering of his fellow gods for his own comfort and convenience. A very different thing to pretend he never saw the ones Locke ordered him to hunt down.

She has a feeling he’s done a lot of both.

Doesn’t say that, though. Doesn’t say anything at all.

She watches him swallow the last of his breakfast, watches him lean back and pat his belly like they’re in a tavern and not a sewer, and tries not to think about how easily he found her. Tries not to think about what it means that he _knew_ where to find her, that he knows the way she thinks as well as the way she eats.

She tells herself it doesn’t matter. He’s her friend, or at least he’s trying to be, and it shouldn’t matter that he knew she’d be here. She tells herself she doesn’t feel unsafe again, tells herself she doesn’t feel violated just by the sight of him. Tells herself that this is her world and he’s just visiting, that she is in control, that she is always in control when she’s underground.

But then he climbs to his feet and stands over her, massive in every direction, and she is so afraid that he’ll pick her up and drag her back to the surface with him. So afraid that he’ll make her go back, whether she wants to or not.

Tripitaka would. She’s sure of that. Tripitaka knows—

Tripitaka _thinks_ he knows what’s best for her.

But Pigsy doesn’t know what’s best for anyone, least of all himself.

And maybe he knows that too, because he doesn’t pick her up and he doesn’t try to drag her away and he doesn’t do anything to her at all.

He grabs his rake and turns back the way he came, and he doesn’t even look at her, really, except to check that she’s still there.

“I’m going to tell the others you’re alive,” he says. “You can come along if you like, or you can stay down here with the rats. Your choice.”

Sandy’s stomach clenches.

“Is it?” she whispers. “Really?”

He blinks, like he doesn’t understand the question.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” And he shrugs his massive shoulders, and this time he doesn’t grin. “I’m not your babysitter. Why should I care what you do with your time?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yeah. Me either.” Another shrug. “So stick around, if that’s what you want. Take in the view. Do whatever—”

And he stops.

And he sighs.

But she hears.

 _Do whatever makes you feel safe_.

And she looks up at him.

And he doesn’t look down at her.

And—

And she thinks of the sun.

And she thinks of the heat and the light and the way it makes her head throb.

And she thinks of the people in the village, of the noise and the chaos, the way they stare and the way they laugh and the way it never, ever stops.

And she thinks of how sharp the world is and how it makes her feel flayed, and how safe she feels down here, for the first time since she left Palawa.

And she thinks of the Scholar and the Resistance, and of Tripitaka and their mission.

And she sighs and climbs to her feet.

“I’ll come along,” she says.

And every nerve in her body resists.

*

The sun is still very low when they emerge from the sewers.

Dim light. Hazy. Not so violent, not so unbearable.

But it is still _light_ , and Sandy still flinches and hisses when it hits her face. Doesn’t pull her hood up, though, not while Pigsy is looking at her. Not when he probably expects—

No. She won’t let him see that.

She takes a deep, steadying breath, turns her face towards the ground. Avoids the distant, rising sun, dodges the thin beams lashing at her skin.

And she hears him sigh again, and she feels the shift in the ground as his footsteps change, and she knows what’s coming even before he opens his big mouth.

“It’s not always like this, you know.”

She stiffens, but doesn’t look up. Pretends to be surprised, even though she’s not.

“Don’t know what you’re talking—”

“Yeah, you do.”

And then she does look up, just to figure out what sort of way he’s staring at her, to know if it’s dangerous or not. And—

She can’t tell.

He’s harder to read than Monkey, harder even than Tripitaka. She thinks he looks a little sad but she can’t say for sure, and suddenly the ground feels very unsteady beneath her feet.

“Fine,” she mumbles, because even though she slept through the night she is far too exhausted to play this game with him. “Maybe I do.”

“Uh huh.” He softens a little, but the maybe-sad maybe-dangerous look doesn’t really leave his face. “So, okay. Let’s say today is just like yesterday. All heat and no shade, yeah? Say you spend the whole day wanting to curl up and die. Say it’s—”

“Not helping.”

“Right, right. Sorry.” And he sort of grins, but it’s not like his usual one at all. “But what if, say, tomorrow is cold? What if it’s cloudy? What if it _rains_?”

Even just the thought of it cools her a little. “I like rain.”

“Yeah, never would’ve guessed.” But he smiles, and it’s not like a grin at all. “It’s not always going to hurt just to step outside, is what I’m saying.”

Sandy wants to shout, _how would you know?_

She wants to take him by the shoulders and shake him until he rattles, and she wants to tell him that he’s never known a moment’s hurt in his worthless, pampered life. And she wants to turn him around and force him to see all the pain he’s poured onto others, intentional or not, and she wants to make him feel all of it, _everything_ , and she wants to make him know and see and understand that gods like him are the reason gods like her can’t survive in daylight.

And she wants the world to sear and scorch and scald him like it does her, and she wants him to hurt like she does, and she wants him to feel everything and hate it and hate it and hate it. And she wants to make him _understand_ —

But—

But _oh_ , so much more than all of that, she wants to run back into the sewer and duck down under the stangant, still water and do the same thing she always does.

Wants to stop talking, stop listening. Wants to stop being a part of this, all of it, and just _hide_.

Again.

For good.

And Pigsy—

He looks at her and he sighs, and there is so much grief and guilt and shame on his face that she wonders for a moment if maybe he does know and feel those things after all, if maybe she doesn’t need to say them after all. If maybe no-one needs to.

And he shakes his head and he steps between her and the slowly-rising sun, but he doesn’t look her in the eye at all.

And he leans in and over her shoulder. And he tugs her hood up to cover her eyes and her face, to cover and shroud and shelter every other part of her that is so afraid of being seen.

And he says, with devastating softness, “Better?”

And Sandy can only nod and try very hard not to cry.

And he pats her on the shoulder and says, “Good.”

And then he turns away like he never saw her at all.

*

Back at the tavern, Tripitaka is not pleased.

Pigsy tries to defuse the tension by announcing “I told you she was fine,” but it has little effect on the frenzied, fretting monk.

They’ve barely made it through the door before he’s throwing himself between them, like they both couldn’t trample him to dust with a well-placed boot. And though she can’t say for certain Sandy is fairly sure it’s only his monastic training that keeps him from taking a swing at her.

“Don’t ever do that again!” he yells.

Sandy tries her best to look abashed. It doesn’t really work. “Sorry.”

“Are you?”

“Not really.” She’s never been good at keeping the truth hidden, and she doubts it would win her any favours with him in this mood. “But you look like you want me to be.”

Tripitaka massages his temples, weary and frustrated. “Sandy...”

He does that a lot. Says her name like it’s a full sentence, like an exclamation or an instruction she’s supposed to understand. Frustration starts to burn in her too, a little bit.

“I promise I’ll leave a letter next time.”

He doesn’t look mollified in the least. “So you’re planning on making this a regular occurrence, then?”

“No.”

An easy answer, but not for the right reasons.

She knows this can’t become a regular occurrence. Knows there won’t always be a village, with all its good and bad and in-between things, its terrifying people and its beautiful sewers to duck into and hide. Knows she’ll just have to accept that sometimes her skin will burn and her head will throb and her stomach will feel so sour that she can’t even swallow. Knows she can’t make a habit out of this because there is no guarantee the quest will ever let her see another sewer again. Knows—

Too much.

And she bows her head and she sighs and she says, “Sorry,” again and again until she does mean it.

*

Monkey isn’t particularly happy to see her either.

He storms through the door, scowling like a thundercloud, and the look on his face when he sees her standing there is almost worse.  


“You see?” he says to Tripitaka, throwing up his hands. “I _told_ you we should’ve just tied her to a tree.”

Tripitaka doesn’t even crack a smile. “I’m starting to think you’re right.”

Monkey blinks. Clearly, he was not expecting agreement, but he’s too annoyed to push it. He turns to Sandy, hands on his hips. “Glad you’re in one piece, at least.”

And he shoves her hood back down.

Sandy doesn’t try to stop him. Doesn’t try to explain that she wasn’t the one who put it up this time.

Doesn’t do much of anything, really.

She just stands there and lets him look her up and down like an object, like he’s trying to figure out whether or not somebody else has put their hands on his property.

“But if you do that again,” he goes on, “I’ll feed you to the villagers myself.”

“I’m sorry.” She’s getting so tired of saying that. “Didn’t mean to cause trouble. Just wanted some peace and quiet.”

“Well, leave a damn note next time,” he snaps. “I’ve turned this place upside-down looking for you. I thought—”

And he stops.

“Relax, will you?” Pigsy says. He’s blinking and frowning rather a lot, like he doesn’t know which one of them to look at, or maybe which one is the least likely to bite his head off. “I told you I’d bring her back safe and sound, didn’t I? Told you she was just—”

And he stops too.

Sandy feels uncomfortable and so, so unsafe. She doesn’t want to know just how much time they’ve spent talking about her. Doesn’t want to know what they might have said.

Whatever it is — whatever they did or didn’t say, whatever they’re not saying now — it’s enough to settle Monkey down some. He waves a hand at both of them, like he’s dismissing the whole conversation, then he spins on his heels and glowers at Tripitaka again.

“So you got your puppy back. Congratulations. Now can we get out of this dump?”

“Soon,” Tripitaka says smoothly. “I’d like to stock up on supplies while we’re here. No telling how long it’ll be before we pass another village.”

Just the idea of going through all this again sends a jolt of dread all the way through Sandy’s body. She shudders, swallows, and thinks, _hopefully not any time soon_.

Then she looks up and finds them all staring again.

And this time she just sighs.

“I said it out loud again, didn’t I?”

Pigsy laughs, a not-real sort of laugh that’s more polite than amused, and claps a hand onto her shoulder. “We’ll work on it,” he says.

Sandy doesn’t want to work on it. She doesn’t want to spend the rest of her life worrying about whether she’s saying something inside her head or out loud. Living alone for so much of her life, she’s always seen the two as pretty much the same. What’s the difference, which part of her hears her own voice?

But she’s not just _her_ any more. Now she’s part of a _them_. Now she has friends, or sort-of-friends, or travelling companions who might become friends. Now she’s in a tavern overflowing with people, strangers in every direction, maybe friends or maybe enemies; she’ll never let them close enough to know for sure. And none of those people — friends or enemies or strangers — want to hear the things she thinks out loud.

She closes her eyes, tries to block out Pigsy’s not-really-laughter. Turns to look at Tripitaka instead, and tries not to look as pathetic as she feels.

“Can I help? With the supplies?”

Tripitaka sort of smiles, but it’s no more real than Pigsy’s laughter. He doesn’t look quite so angry with her now, only sad and sort of pitying, and Sandy can’t decide which is worse.

“Why don’t you wait here?” It sounds like a suggestion, but it’s not really. “Unless you’re any good at haggling?”

“I’m not.”

Silly question, really. When would she have had the opportunity?

She doesn’t say that, though. Doesn’t point out that she’s always had to steal what she needed. Doesn’t want a monk to think less of her for the way she lived, the way she had to live. Doesn’t want to look up and see Pigsy looking uncomfortable too, reminded of the way _he_ lived.

“Okay.” Tripitaka’s smile becomes a little more natural. Just a little. “So wait here. Have something to drink. Get some breakfast, if you haven’t eaten yet. Try and take it easy.”

What he really means, of course, is: _try not to get into trouble_.

And Monkey, sensing that, grunts and says, not for the first time, “I’ll keep an eye on her.”

And Sandy knows he’s only using her as an excuse not to help with the shopping, but she still feels like a burden.

Tripitaka narrows his eyes, like he doesn’t trust Monkey to stay out of trouble any more than he trusts Sandy. “You?”

“What? You don’t trust me either?”

“In a tavern? Definitely not.”

He concedes the point with an easy shrug. “Well, then, I guess we’re all going shopping.”

And Tripitaka sighs so deeply and so heavily it’s a wonder his lungs don’t collapse.

“Fine.” Though he’s speaking mainly to Monkey, he’s still glaring at them both. It is impressive, and a little frightening, how such a tiny monk can be so intimidating. “Just try not to start any bar brawls this time.”

Monkey rolls his eyes. “You monks have no sense of fun.”

And Sandy wants so desperately to be invisible again.

*

They sit together in a quiet corner.

Sort of quiet, anyway.

Not quiet enough to stop the pounding in her head, or to muffle the endless barrage of voices, or even to hear herself think, but it’s probably as quiet as she can expect from an establishment dedicated to making as much noise as possible.

Monkey asks her more than once what she wants to drink, but she doesn’t hear him at all until he elbows her in the ribs and talks into her ear. And she can tell by the look on his face that he doesn’t think it’s very noisy at all, that he doesn’t need to strain to hear everything, that for him this is normal.

For everyone, maybe, who hasn’t spent their life alone.

And she can tell, too, by the way he sighs and mutters and rolls his eyes, that he thinks she’s being difficult on purpose. And she doesn’t know how to begin explaining what it’s like to be so violently aware of everything.

He orders a pitcher of water for her and a pitcher of ale for himself, and Sandy watches with a sort of puzzled fascination as he drinks and his shoulders grow looser. She wonders if he realises it’s happening, or if he even cares. It must be such a wonderful thing, to feel and be free enough not to care if he’s tense or relaxed.

She wonders how it might feel, letting her guard down like that.

She wonders—

Even just wondering makes sweat break out on her brow.

He frowns at her. “Problem?”

She swallows, hides her face behind her cup. “No problem here.”

“Good.”

And he doesn’t look at her again for a while. And that is a comfort like no other.

He focuses on his cup instead, drinking probably not as slowly as he should. And his jaw works as he drinks and sometimes when he’s not drinking, like he’s got thoughts sticking to his tongue, like he’s trying to wash them down along with the ale, like he’s trying very hard not to do the stupid embarrassing things she does, not to let his mouth fall open and the thoughts fall out and—

And just as Sandy is fumbling for something to say to make it easier for him, he slams his cup down onto the table and says, “You _scared_ me.”

Well. That’s—

Something.

Sandy places her cup on the table next to his, a little gentler. Thinks about that for a little while.

“Didn’t mean to,” she says. Simple, like what he said.

“Yeah, well, you did.” He growls, frustrated. Maybe with her, maybe with himself. Maybe with both of them. “I thought they’d come and _taken_ you. Thought I’d go out to find bits of you scattered all over the streets.”

Sandy feels rather flattered.

And terribly uncomfortable.

“I can take care of myself,” she says. “Been doing it for a very long time.”

“Hiding like a rat in the sewers isn’t ‘taking care of yourself’. It’s just hiding.”

“Worked well enough,” she points out, quiet and ashamed. “Kept me alive.”

“Right. Until you took one step out into the real world and stopped functioning.”

“I...”

But how can she argue, really? He’s seen her; they all have. It’s no secret that she can’t tolerate anything out here. No secret that she’s barely keeping her head up. No secret that she’s—

“I’ll get used to it,” she says.

He picks up his cup, drains it dry, then fills it up again. Studies her like she’s not a person but a thing, the way he always does, like maybe that’s the only way he can make sense of her.

She’s getting used to that.

Still not used to the way he softens, though. And by the look on his face as it happens, neither is he.

“Yeah.” And he ducks his head the way she does when she feels exposed. “I guess we both will.”

Sandy blinks. It takes her a moment to process the word, then another to grasp its meaning. “Both?”

“You heard me.” He’s impatient. Doesn’t like to explain himself. Definitely doesn’t like to explain his feelings. “I was in a rock for five hundred years. The world I woke up to? Nothing like the one I left.”

And he takes another drink and uses his full mouth as an excuse not to say more.

Sandy studies him closely. Squints, tries to find the places where he’s uncomfortable, the cracks in his self-satisfaction, the holes in his heroism, the places where he feels maybe a little bit like she does.

Overwhelmed. Out of his depth. Like the world he’s in is nothing like the one he knows.

It looks very different on him. Maybe because he feels it differently too.

He doesn’t flinch or tremble like she does. Doesn’t wither under the sun, doesn’t go blind from the light or deaf from the noise, doesn’t get headaches or feel sick or struggle against the _too much_ and the _everything_ and the awful sharpness that makes up the world. She feels it all so physically, an assault on her senses that never ends, but he doesn’t seem to feel that way at all. The world doesn’t cause him pain; it just frustrates him.

“Is it difficult?” she wonders out loud. “Or just annoying?”

Monkey snorts, a sound like the way he rolls his eyes. “Both.”

“Oh.”

And she looks at the cup in his hands.

And he looks at the mark his staff left on her neck.

And neither of them says anything else for a long, long time.

*

Some time later, when the silence has stretched to its breaking point, Monkey refills his cup and slides it across the table.

“Try some.”

Sandy stares at it. “Um. I don’t—”

“Yeah, I figured.” He’s got an odd look on his face, expectant but also kind of hopeful. And he is still much softer than normal. “But do it anyway.”

He doesn’t explain, but she can tell that there’s more to it than trying to lower her inhibitions or fill the silence with bad ideas.

So she does as he says. Takes a deep breath and drains the cup like it was filled with water, unpleasantly aware of the way he’s watching her. And—

And it tastes awful.

Really, _really_ awful.

And the look on her face must be utterly comical, because he throws his head back and laughs.

She flinches a little, waits for the sound to tear through her, to carve up her nerves the way loud noises always do — the way laughter does, more than anything else — and she waits for the pain and the shame to hit, the horrible feeling of being seen and known and _visible_ —

But it doesn’t come.

None of it does.

She blinks. And the world seems to sort of soften at the edges. Only the tiniest bit, but even that is a blessed, beautiful relief after so much light and noise and _everything_.

“Um.” Her voice sounds odd to her own ears. “Oh.”

“Uh huh.” And Monkey looks very proud of himself. “Good?”

“Not...” She blinks again, and wets her lips. “Not exactly.”

He’s still smirking, like he expected nothing less. “Yeah, well. It’s an acquired taste.”

And he sits back and lets her absorb that.

The world stays the way it is, even after she stops blinking. A little softer, and sort of subdued. Sandy feels like her head has been wrapped in a warm, heavy cloth, like all the sharpness has been sanded down, like the lights have been dimmed and the noise has been muffled. She feels like herself, only quieter. Like maybe it won’t hurt her after all, to let her guard down for a few moments.

She reaches for the pitcher. The taste may be awful, but the sensation is not.

Monkey grabs her wrist, though, stopping her a little too hastily.

“Let’s not overdo it,” he says. “Tripitaka would kill me if I got you drunk.”

“Mm.” She sort of laughs. At least, she thinks she does. “All right.”

Monkey doesn’t let go of her, though. He’s studying her face closely, like he’s trying to figure out whether this was a good idea or not.

“Just a taste,” he says. “Just to show you there are other ways of making things easier. You don’t have to run off and hide underground every time you feel overwhelmed.”

Sandy thinks about that. “Not sure Tripitaka would approve of this.”

“Right.” He’s moving his thumb back and forth along the side of her wrist, like he’s trying to soothe her. She wonders if he realises he’s doing it, whether he’d stop if he did. “Because he _really_ approved of you running off in the middle of the night to hang out with your rat friends.”

It stings. It’s not untrue, but it still stings. Even the haze of dulled senses doesn’t make it less, and she fights to keep from hiding her face, ducking behind her hood like she knows he hates.

“It’s the only thing I know how to do,” she mumbles, and that stings too.

She doesn’t really realise she’s sniffling until he lets go of her and pulls away. The softness on his face is gone now, hardened into something a little more familiar, something maybe a little like sympathy.

No. Like _empathy_.

Like maybe the world really is painful for him as well, and not just annoying. Like maybe he has his own struggles to face, different from hers but just as difficult.

“I know,” he says, very quietly. “Believe it or not, I get it. That’s why I’m trying to show you other things.” He lets that sit for a moment, lets the lesson wash over them both. “Look. People like you and me, we don’t really belong here. This world isn’t _our_ world. Won’t ever be. So living like this, out here... it’s always going to be scary.”

“That’s not very comforting,” she mutters, mostly to herself.

“I’m getting there.” His eyes crinkle when he tries to glare, though, and the line of his mouth isn’t really as tight as it should be. “Point is, there are ways to make yourself less scared.” And he points at the pitcher. “Good drink, for example. Or good food. Or good _people_.”

That last one is too much; Sandy shakes her head violently. 

“People don’t like me.”

He thinks on that for a bit, like he knows he can’t deny it.

“Tripitaka does,” he says at last. “And Pigsy. I mean, neither of them have the greatest taste in the world, but they’re still people, right?”

“Not really. Pigsy is a god. And Tripitaka is—”

She stops, flushing hot. Doesn’t want him to know how long she’s spent shaping that name on her tongue, turning it into a prayer, a promise, remaking her world around it. Doesn’t want him to know how heavy it is, hearing Tripitaka’s name next to her own.

But maybe he knows that too, because he’s smiling again.

“Yeah, yeah. A _monk_.” And his smile turns sharp, but not in the bad way. “But he’s a good one. And he does like you. And maybe—”

And he stops and takes a drink straight from the pitcher.

Sandy isn’t very good at smiling, but she attempts it now.

“And maybe someone else as well?”

“Maybe.” He shrugs. Too loose, too easy, and he’s not even pretending to glare any more. “Who knows? It’s a big world. Gotta be someone out there who doesn’t want to kill you.”

And he tries to laugh, but the sound doesn’t really make it past his throat.

He ducks his head, then, and drinks again from the pitcher. And Sandy watches his throat convulse as he swallows, studies the place where the laughter got stuck, and she recognises the need to try and swallow down his own sharpness, the bad kind, the kind that hurts.

“I’m sorry it’s hard for you too,” she says.

And she wants to touch him like Tripitaka touches her, wants to reach out the way Pigsy does, but she doesn’t know to do that, doesn’t know how to show compassion with her hands any more than she knows how to do it with her words.

But she finds his shoulder and squeezes it a bit, the way Pigsy does sometimes when he tries to communicate with her, and she doesn’t know if it works but the hard, strange look on his face bleeds out again, if only a little.

“It’s getting better,” he says. “Bit by bit. Day by day. You find the stuff that makes it easier, and you hold onto it.”

Sandy thinks of the sewers, of darkness and water and blessed, peaceful solitude, of being by herself in a world that isn’t sharp or painful, a world that’s buried and doesn’t want to hurt her.

And she thinks of rocks and names thrown at her, and of the sun and the heat beating down, and of all the horrible things that come with living and breathing and existing out here in the hard, sharp, painful world.

“The only thing that makes it easier,” she whispers, “is hiding.”

And Monkey looks at her, and then he looks down at himself.

“I get that,” he says. “But we’ll find some new things together.”

Sandy wants so badly to say, _how do I survive until then?_

She doesn’t. Can’t.

But maybe the ale has made her even less subtle than usual, because Monkey is looking soft again, like maybe she did say it after all, like he heard her even in the silence.

And he doesn’t say anything either.

But he reaches across the table, grabs her hood, and pulls it ever so gently over her head.

*


	5. All We See Is Sky

*

Tripitaka and Pigsy return some time later, weighed down with supplies.

Monkey is deep in his cups by then, the pitcher long since drained dry and joined by another. He’s no less self-aware, no less himself, but he is calm and relaxed, and the easy looseness of his shoulders is almost enough to make Sandy feel the same way.

Almost.

Tripitaka, being a monk, is somewhat less than impressed. He takes in the pitchers, takes in Monkey’s languorous smile, and flashes a glare so fierce it’s a miracle the table doesn’t melt into a puddle right then and there. Sometimes, when he’s angry, he seems to grow in size until he’s not so tiny at all.

“ _You_ were supposed to be keeping an eye on _her_ ,” he says. “Not the other way around.”

Monkey shrugs, and flashes his most charming smirk, the one Sandy knows Tripitaka can never resist. He might be an odd sort of monk, might even be a little scary in moments like this, but he is not very good at hiding his reactions.

“I _am_ keeping an eye on her,” Monkey says. “I’m making sure she doesn’t overdo it. You know, confiscating the stuff so she doesn’t drown herself?”

It’s a pretty weak excuse, but he’s not lying. True to his word, he hasn’t let her touch so much as a drop since her first cup. Whether it’s because he’s concerned about her tolerance or just because he wanted the rest all to himself, she can’t tell — though she has her suspicions — but it doesn’t really matter; she’s happy enough with the little he gave her.

The room is still dimmer than it was, the pain in her nerves a little less keen, and she is less afraid of what might happen if she raises her head or opens her mouth.

It won’t last. This she knows. But while it does, she feels—

Lighter.

And the world is darker.

Less violent. Less vibrant. Less—

 _Less_.

Tripitaka is looking at her now, eyes narrowed. Suspicious, maybe, but he’s not angry with her like he is with Monkey. “Please tell me _you’re_ not intoxicated.”

This time Sandy does not flinch from his gaze. She’s still as afraid of him as she always was — not just because he is intimidating right now, but because of who he is — but she’s perhaps a little less afraid of herself.

“No.” She tries to remember what Monkey said. “Just a taste. Apparently.”

And she tries to smile. It doesn’t really work — she suspects it looks more like a grimace — but it’s easier to try, at least.

“Good.” Tripitaka doesn’t quite smile either. His expression is odd, sort of lopsided. Like maybe he’s still a bit annoyed, but is finding it harder to stay that way. “Because we’re heading out soon, and I want you walking straight.”

Monkey snorts a laugh. “Please,” he says. “She can’t manage that on a good day.”

Tripitaka shoots him a glare that could freeze a volcano. “You too, Monkey King.”

And just like that, the smirk falls off his face.

*

Pigsy insists they stay for one last drink.

Monkey wholeheartedly approves.

Tripitaka wholeheartedly does not.

Sandy—

Sandy isn’t really sure whether she approves or not.

It is less intolerable, the tavern, when her head feels lighter than the room. But that feeling grows less and less as the minutes pass — as the seconds pass, really; she’s always had a fast metabolism — and the noise is still noise and the people are still people, and she still feels like every eye in the tavern is on her.

They’re not. She’s mostly sure of that by now. The people here don’t seem to care very much about her, beyond that she is travelling with the Monkey King. He trusts her, and so does his monk, so why should they give her a second glance?

So it seems, at least. And that—

That is very new. And wholly unexpected.

But she is still afraid.

She doesn’t really know how to feel about _not_ being seen. Doesn’t know how to process it, doesn’t know how to see the world as something that doesn’t hate her, something not to be feared. Doesn’t know how to exist in a place that doesn’t care if she’s there or not.

And so her nerves continue to scream and her heart continues to pound, and her whole body continues to tighten and twist itself in knots as if it were still under attack because it hasn’t yet learned how not to be.

She does not need Monkey rolling his eyes to know that that’s _stupid_. But she can’t unlearn a lifetime of survival in a single day, no matter how much ale she drinks.

So she keeps her head down, keeps her eyes on the table, keeps herself as small and shrouded as she can, and keeps _trying_.

Tries to focus only on what’s important, the only people that matter, the ones sitting close to her. Tries to fill up all of her senses with Monkey’s loose-limbed honesty and Pigsy’s raucous laughter and the way Tripitaka drops his head into his hands and pretends he’s never met either of them before. Tries to think of them and nothing else. Tries to remember why she’s here in the first place.

And it’s not—

It is still so, so difficult, but it’s not—

Well.

It could be _worse_.

At least, she’s mostly sure it could.

So she breathes.

She—

Tries to, anyway.

And when Pigsy’s hand drops onto her shoulder, big and strong and slowly becoming familiar, she does not flinch and she does not shiver.

“Hanging in there?” he asks.

She nods. Tries, again, to smile. It’s even harder now that the ale is bleeding out of her system, and she doesn’t manage it at all.

“I wish it was quieter.”

“Funny.” He grins. Softer than his usual, but no less discomfiting. “I was just thinking it could stand to be a bit louder.”

Her stomach turns over a few times, and not just because of his face. “Really?”

“No.” And he laughs, loud and loose, and cuffs her shoulder. “It was a joke.”

“...oh.”

It stings. More than usual, even. A strange, sharp sort of pain that settles behind her eyes and makes her blink a lot.

She wonders if she’ll ever be able to tell the difference, if she’ll ever be able to tell what a joke is and why it’s supposed to be funny. Pigsy laughs at almost anything; it’s not enough to assume he’s joking just because he’s laughing. But he’s looking at her like she should know, like anyone would, like it’s so easy to read the difference between sincerity and silliness, like even the smallest child could do it.

And she feels stupid because she can’t, and she feels useless because she doesn’t understand, and she feels like—

Like someone who has lived her life in a sewer.

Which she has. Which she _is_.

And she wishes she wasn’t so ashamed of that.

Her eyes start to sting more.

Pigsy stops laughing. He shifts in his seat, leans in to get a better look at her face. And maybe he sees something that she’s not aware of, because he suddenly grows very, very serious.

“Hey,” he says. “It’s okay.”

And the way he says it, and the way he looks at her—

Something _shatters_ in Sandy’s chest.

And the sting behind her eyes gets worse and worse.

And she feels—

No.

No, it’s not safe to feel anything in this place.

It’s not—

 _She’s_ not—

She lurches up to her feet. “I need to—”

“Okay. Yeah. Okay.”

And all of a sudden he has one hand at her back and the other on her arm, and she’s not really aware of how he’s getting her to move, only that he is, only that the noise and the chaos is growing hushed and indistinct, only that the heavy rancid tavern air is dissolving and dissipating, everything fading away and vanishing into the background, until—

Until somehow they’re back _outside_ , back under the sun.

And she has no idea how they got here, but she’s fairly sure she has him to thank for it.

She turns to look up at him. Tries to speak, but her voice is strangled and she’s halfway blind and she can’t—

“It’s okay,” he says again. “We’re out of there.”

And she tries—

But she can’t—

And she—

And the shattered thing in her chest bursts out of her in a strangled, desperate sob.

And her head throbs, and her stomach heaves, and her body fights against itself with everything it has. But once it’s out, once it’s started, there’s no stopping it.

So she sobs again.

And again.

And again, and again, and _again_.

*

And when she’s finished, she sits on the ground, slumped against the wall, and tries to remember how to breathe.

“Sorry,” she croaks, when she trusts herself to speak. “Don’t know what came over me.”

“Nothing to be sorry for.” Pigsy stays standing, keeping his distance. He’s good at that, most of the time. “You’ve been sitting on that for a while now. Was only a matter of time before the dam broke.”

“Was it?”

Serious question. How would she know? The last time she cried—

No.

 _No_.

Won’t think about that now. Not in his company, or anyone’s.

Pigsy sighs, then sits down. Next to her, sort of, but still a little way away. Good distance, enough that she can touch him or run away from him, whichever she wants. He is much, much better at this than Tripitaka.

“Yeah,” he says, soft and gentle, like maybe she’s not stupid for not knowing. “It was.”

And he just sits there quietly for a bit, like nothing else needs to be said.

Sandy closes her eyes. They feel swollen and sore, a little bit like she’s been punched. It’s a not-unfamiliar feeling, physicality and violence and the life of a god who looks too much like a demon. But it—

But it’s different, too. And she can’t really make sense of how, exactly, except that the punch came from inside.

It’s been so long since she cried. So long since she let herself. Hard to really remember if she felt this way last time. And she’s not sure she’d want to remember _that_ , even if she could.

The sun catches her face when she tries to lift her head, and makes it ache worse than it already does. She wants to run back to the sewers, wants to hide there until night falls, maybe even longer than that. Wants—

“Believe it or not,” Pigsy says, interrupting, “this is a good thing.”

And he leans in a little and gently puts his big hand over her face, shielding her sore, swollen eyes from the light, shielding her burning face from the heat, shielding her from everything she hasn’t said, all the things he sees so effortlessly.

“If this is good,” she mutters, “what would you call bad?”

“What you were doing before.”

He doesn’t even need to think about it. Just says it like it’s obvious.

And maybe it is for him. But she is not him and thinking is so _difficult_.

“Don’t understand.”

“Yeah, I thought you might say that.” He takes his hand back. Waits for her to open her eyes, waits for her to look up and see him as completely as he sees her. “All that bottling it up you’ve been doing. All that hiding and trying to make yourself small and untouchable. Only one place that road leads, and it’s not fun.” And he sighs a little, but it’s not sad or frustrated like she expects. It’s just sort of quiet. “But letting it out like that? Means your body’s starting to realise the world won’t open up its jaws and swallow you whole if you breathe wrong. And yeah, that’s a good thing.”

Sandy opens her mouth. Closes it again.

Scrubs and swipes at her eyes, like she could banish the way he’s looking at her if she could only banish what’s left of her stupid, shameful tears.

“I don’t...” she starts.

And stops.

And sighs.

There are so many things she doesn’t or can’t or isn’t, so many hard words she could throw in her own face, and she doesn’t want him to see any of them. Doesn’t want _him_ , in particular, to see them, but really doesn’t want anyone to. It’s painful enough just being here, without also being—

Without being seen and known and understood.

Without being who she is, where she is, and the way she is.

Without being _herself_.

She turns her head a little. Pigsy is looking up at the sky, not at her, and the relief makes it a little easier to not duck her head or try to disappear.

“You don’t even really know what you’re hiding from any more,” he says softly. “Do you?”

It’s not an easy question.

Even if it was, she’s not sure she’d want to answer. But he looks so calm, so steady, and he speaks with such quiet certainty that she’s not sure her silence would make any difference. He doesn’t need to hear the words; he’s probably got them all memorised by now anyway. Like he knows more about her than she does.

And. Well. That’s not so difficult.

Most people know more about her than she does.

But most people aren’t _him_.

And it is still more than she can do to look at him and not feel sick.

“Used to,” she says at last, without any softness at all. “Used to be simple. Hide from demons, hide from people. Hide from gods like you.”

“Right.” He doesn’t take offence. She rather wishes he would. “Things that could hurt you.”

“Still not convinced you won’t. Still not convinced you’re—”

But she stops. Has to, because he turns and looks right at her.

“I know. And that...” He sighs. “It’ll take some time. I get that.”

That helps, a little bit. Sandy hides her face again, but she doesn’t flinch and she doesn’t tell him to stop staring. She just keeps talking — babbling, really — like the words will somehow tether her.

“Now it’s everything,” she says. “Hide from the sun because it’s too light and too hot and too much. Hide from places like this because they’re filled with people. Hide from people still. Always hide from _people_.” And she sighs too, but it’s nothing like his. Not quiet, just utterly exhausted. “But now there’s people like Monkey and Tripitaka. And I don’t know how to—”

She shakes her head. If she keeps going, she’ll start crying again, and she’s not sure her eye sockets could take any more of that. So she stops.

“Can’t tell a friend from an enemy?” Pigsy offers.

“Can’t tell anything.” And she takes a deep breath, and she leans her head all the way back, and she squints up at the sun until it blinds her. And she says, “Everything is so _hard_.”

He laughs. But it doesn’t make her angry or upset like it usually does. Maybe because this time it sounds more sad than mirthful.

“It is, yeah.” His fingers hover for a second in the space between them, and he waits until she swallows and holds still, until she gives him permission by not flinching. And then he touches her face, gentle but very serious, and he tilts her head back down until she’s looking at him instead of the sun, until his dark eyes block out the bright light. “But that’s not because you’ve spent your life hiding. It’s hard because that’s how it is.”

She thinks about that.

It’s—

Well. _Hard_.

Hard to think, and harder still to grasp his meaning.

“So what you’re saying,” she says slowly, “is that it’ll always be like this?”

“No.” He doesn’t laugh, or flash that awful grin of his. Doesn’t do anything but hold her gaze and let his quiet seriousness wash over her. “I’m saying we’re all in this together.”

She blinks. Pulls away and feels her heart start up again when he lets her.

“But you’re not saying it _won’t_ always be like this.”

And he sighs again. And again, it’s not hard or heavy, just sort of quiet. Not frustrated or moody like Monkey, not weighed down by too much compassion like Tripitaka. Just him, and the very small part of him that she doesn’t resent.

“No, I’m not,” he says. “I’m not going to say that.”

“So what difference does it make?”

And he looks at her like she’s the saddest, most pitiful little creature he’s ever seen. And maybe she is. Maybe that’s just what she’ll always be to these people who know and are so much more than her.

But it only lasts a moment, that sad pitying look. And then it’s gone, dissolving oh so slowly from his face, and then he smiles.

And his expression is warm and his eyes are gleaming and full of kindness. And for perhaps the first time, the way he smiles doesn’t turn her stomach at all.

“Believe me,” he says, as soft as a whisper, “it makes all the difference in the world.”

*

And then the others are there.

Monkey and Tripitaka, and—

And, again, Sandy doesn’t know what to feel.

They stand over her, crowding her from every angle, and a part of her feels trapped and frightened. Even Tripitaka is intimidating when he’s standing up and she’s sitting down.

But Monkey is massive, all tight muscles and shoulders, and he’s positioned himself in exactly the right way to block out the sun, and his shadow gives her a bit of shelter for the first time in too long. And that—

That has to be on purpose.

He doesn’t even mention it, though. Just looks down at her, smirking, and says, “Let me guess: couldn’t hold your liquor?”

Sandy frowns. “I don’t—”

Pigsy clears his throat, interrupting with uncharacteristic deftness. “Something like that,” he says, a bit too hastily. “She’s fine now, though.”

“Good,” Tripitaka says, though the frown on his face says he’s not entirely convinced. “I was worried.”

“No need,” Sandy mumbles, and looks at the ground.

Monkey snorts. He’s already growing bored with this, and somehow that’s almost as comforting as the cool, perfect shade thrown by his shoulders.

“If I’d’ve known you’d get dramatic about it,” he grumbles, “I never would’ve let you have a taste in the first place.”

Tripitaka glowers at him, unimpressed by the reminder. “You shouldn’t have done that anyway,” he snaps. “How could you possibly think it would help?”

Monkey opens his mouth, then closes it again. It’s not like him to back down from a fight, but somehow Sandy understands.

He doesn’t want to embarrass himself, she thinks. Doesn’t want to be shouted down or humiliated or made to feel small. Doesn’t want Tripitaka to be angry about things he doesn’t understand. Doesn’t want him to see that maybe _he_ needed a way of coping too.

So Sandy looks up at them both, braves Tripitaka’s quiet disapproval, and says, “It did help.”

Tripitaka blinks. 

Monkey, of course, just preens. Sandy wonders if either of the others can see the relief in his eyes, or if that’s for her alone.

“You see?” he says to the monk. “I know what I’m doing. I’m not _completely_ —”

And he stops.

And—

And Sandy doesn’t know very much of anything, but she knows pain when she sees it. At least, she knows her own very particular kind of pain, the kind that comes with suddenly being very frightened of being seen for who she is.

And she remembers Monkey in the tavern before the others got back, and she thinks about the way he drank, the way he talked about good food and good drink and—

And good _people_.

And she wants so much to be one of those.

So she stands.

And the sun is terribly hot.

But Monkey looks so sad.

She touches his arm. Gentle, compassionate, the way Tripitaka touches hers. And—

And it is much easier to smile and make eye-contact and try to be normal when she’s doing it for him and not herself.

“Thank you, Monkey,” she says.

And his smile is just as bright as the sun and it burns through her in mostly the same way, but somehow it doesn’t hurt at all.

“Yeah,” he says. “You’re welcome.”

And for the first time in her life, she thinks she might be.

*

Monkey sobers up quickly and completely, much to Tripitaka’s relief. By the time they’ve loaded up all their supplies and made ready to leave, it’s like he’s never touched a drop of ale in his whole life.

Pigsy chuckles, mourning with a kind of nostalgic fondness the heartbreak of having a god’s metabolism.

“Fun while it lasts,” he laments. “But it never does.”

Monkey only growls. “Can we get moving already?”

Sandy rather misses the way he was with the ale in him. She misses the way his shoulders and his limbs went slack, the way his voice seemed to soften too, the way he wasn’t so guarded in what he said or how he behaved.

She misses his honesty, too, the parts of him that weren’t quite so ashamed to feel the same way she does. The parts that weren’t ashamed to admit it.

She misses having a little of that lightness in herself as well. Not as strong as his, but then she’ll never be as strong as the Monkey King in anything.

Misses feeling like she might be, though. Misses being able to hold some small part of a conversation without feeling like the walls would come crashing down on her if she said the wrong thing.

Misses looking up and not feeling seared and flayed and broken.

Misses looking up and not feeling _anything_.

She stands in front of the town gates, squinting at the horizon for anything that looks like it might be shade. A futile effort, of course; just like yesterday there’s nothing as far as the eye can see. No trees or hills or rocks, no shadows of unwelcoming villages, or welcoming ones, no silhouettes of civilisation, nothing that might offer shelter or a reason to be afraid, no promise of protection and no threats of people.

Nothing.

Only sky and dust and a little bit of dry grass.

She looks down at Tripitaka, standing next to her with a hand shielding his eyes. Wonders what he’s looking for on that horizon.

The scrolls, probably. He doesn’t seem to think about very much else.

“Can we bring the ale with us?” she asks hopefully.

He doesn’t hesitate, of course. “ _No_.”

And he turns to look at her, and he’s sort of soft and serious at the same time.

Sandy wants to turn away, wants to hide from the way he tries to pierce her with his eyes, but it’s never as easy to hide from Tripitaka as it is to hide from Monkey or Pigsy, or from anyone else in the world.

Tripitaka is a holy name, a holy monk, and though he’s not exactly the sort of monk she was expecting she’s still bound and tethered to him. Can’t turn away from that, even if she wanted to.

“Listen,” he says. “If the sun gets too unbearable, tell me.”

Sandy sighs. She wishes she still had the light-headedness of the ale to help her to speak. Wishes it was easier to find the right words, to get them out of her throat and past her clumsy tongue, to make them sound the way she wants them to.

“If I did that,” she says, feeling deeply ashamed, “I think we’d never leave the village.”

And she closes her eyes and tries to think beyond the heat and light, the sensations already trying to scorch her. And she tries, tries, _tries_ not to feel like such a failure.

When she opens her eyes again, just a crack, she finds Tripitaka frowning up at her with a sad look on his face.  


“I understand it’s difficult,” he says.

“It’s part of the quest,” Sandy tells him. “I’ll learn to endure.”

“I know you will.” And his voice gets very low, and his dark eyes sparkle not with mirth or compassion but with grief. “We all will.”

Sandy remembers the Scholar. Remembers that he and Tripitaka were close. She wishes she could empathise with the look of mourning in his eyes, with the sorrow lining his face and the raw, ragged loss, but she can’t. The only thing she’s ever lost was a thing that never wanted her.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and for once it’s not an apology.

Tripitaka bows his head, gratitude and grief without words.

“We’ve all got things like that,” he tells her softly. “Suffering we need to overcome. Struggles we need to work through. But none of us are struggling or suffering alone. You know that, right?”

Sandy thinks of Pigsy, of the things he can see in her, the things he recognises and understands even when she tries so hard to keep them hidden. She thinks of Monkey, sharing a little of his ale and a little of his pain, the strange, silent ways he struggles with the world just like she does.

She tries to think of Tripitaka too, but some things are still too sacred for her to touch. Maybe one day she’ll be able to think of his name and not feel unworthy, but not now. And certainly not _here_.

She doesn’t manage to smile at him, doesn’t even manage to express any of what she’s thinking. But she does manage to look him in the eye, and sustain it.

It’s far more than she’s managed before.

“Yes,” she says. “Yes, I do know that.”

And Tripitaka peers up into her face, like he’s trying to figure out whether she’s telling the truth or not.

Then he squeezes her arm just a bit and lets her go, and turns back to the horizon like maybe it’s a nicer thing to look at.

“Good,” he says.

And Sandy thinks, _not yet, but maybe one day._

*

And then they’re back on the road.

Just like that. Just like before.

And nothing has changed, nothing at all.

Not the sun, not the heat, not the endless horizon stretched out in all directions. Not the way it hurts, the way it _burns_ , the way it makes her head throb and makes her stomach sour, the way it makes her want to be sick and the way it makes her want to curl up and hide for the rest of her life.

Nothing.

Tripitaka still leads the way, marching ahead on his too-short too-small too-human legs. And Monkey still walks beside him, swaggering and effortless and so very strong.

And Pigsy still lags behind them all, even her, panting and breathless and complaining.

And Sandy—

Sandy still feels the world around her like a physical thing, like a rock or a name thrown at her head. Still feels the sun like a brand on her skin, lashing her and flaying her and marking her as _wrong_.

It is no less unbearable.

It is, perhaps, almost more so.

But—

But every now and then the air grows still, and it carries the music of Tripitaka’s soft, unboyish voice or the rise and fall of Monkey’s casual bragging or the rattle of Pigsy’s laboured breathing.

And it is a comfort.

A small one, yes. Much, much too small to stand up to the glaring, endless sunlight or the throbbing of her head or the roiling of her stomach or the knife-edge pains in her nerves, but still, a comfort.

And that is much, much more than she had yesterday.

She still feels so much.

She still struggles to move, still struggles to breathe.

Still struggles to _exist_.

Still struggles under the sun, still struggles to think through the throbbing of her head, still struggles to swallow past the sick feeling in her stomach.

Still struggles to quiet the voices inside her head.

She still struggles against the sharpness of the world, the heat and the light and the noise and the endless, endless _everything_.

With every step and every breath, she struggles.

And maybe she always will.

But sometimes—

Rarely—

But _sometimes_ —

Sometimes, even as she struggles, she smiles.

***


End file.
